


people around me don't understand (what it feels like)

by littlefoxfires



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Class Differences, Dark, Drug Addiction, F/F, F/M, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Love Triangles, Mental Health Issues, Sexual Content, Underage Drinking, everyone is fucked up, sooo dark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-14
Updated: 2015-08-14
Packaged: 2018-03-22 20:34:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 17
Words: 47,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3742690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlefoxfires/pseuds/littlefoxfires
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Aurora dies, wealthy grandparents Bellamy never knew existed take custody of his sister, and, desperate to keep the only family he has left, he is forced into a world he has no business being apart of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> My first fic. It will very disorganized, god. But it's mainly just a creative outlet and to pass the time (procrastinate) between now and season 3. Plus, I'm a sucker for Bellamy and Octavia's relationship, so expect that. Hopefully this idea hasn't been done too many times. Also, trigger warnings (!) mental illness, overdose, drug abuse.

It starts like this: an overdose. Bellamy’s mother on the floor of their tiny bathroom, needle in her arm and heart stopped in her chest. He is stuck for one moment, until he slides down the dirty, tile wall,  he cannot take his eyes off her, and his is aware that he is shaking when he crawls to her. Even beyond his grief, all he thinks is that Octavia will be back from school any moment now, and she cannot see their mother with foam dripping out of her mouth and her arm laced in a homemade tourniquet.

So when Octavia is crying (screaming), trying to fight her way out of the circle of his arms over to the body in the black bag (his mother is now _the body_ ), he doesn’t let her go. And he makes up her mind never to.

\----

This is particularly hard, of course, when the social worker come into play.

“They want Octavia,” the stern, dark-skinned women says, quite plainly, despite the severity of the situation.

He grippes his sister’s hand hard on top of the mahogany table. Looking at two people he’s never met, never even thought existed. And—the man has salt-and-pepper hair, the women is olive skinned (like them). Her hair is bleached blonde. They couldn’t be that old. Fifties, maybe. They smile politely, thinly, but their attention is on Octavia, and, after a while, Bellamy realizes just how much she looks like their mom.

“Too fucking bad,” he doesn’t hold his tongue, never has. The hand that isn’t holding his sister’s is digging into his leg, will probably leave bruises.  “I’m an adult. I can take care of her. I always have.”

 _You’re sister, you’re responsibility—_ he hears his mom’s voice in his head almost instantly.

The woman (their grandmother) smiles with a certain pity. “We can provide Octavia with things you can’t,” she says carefully. “Without all of that responsibility, Bellamy, you can go to university. You can move on with your life—“

“I don’t want to move on,” he says before he can even think. It comes out wrong, he’s not sure what he means by that. He stifles the next words before they come out, _she’s all I have left._

Next to him, Octavia is a mess. They are so alike, it makes him proud and hurts him, at the same time. “I don’t know you,” she says, in a snarl, her chin jutting. "You want to take care of me now? Where were you when we were _hungry_? When our electricity, our _heat_ was turned off? Where were you when we had to perform CPR on mom, or when Bellamy pulled her boyfriends off me? _Huh?_ You want to take care me? Go back in time and _fix that_. Take care of _that._ ” Her eyes are like fire, her voice that sharp uncontrollable edge he knows so well (because it is also his own).

\-----

But, in the end—they win. They have money, he realizes bitterly, more money than he can even think off, because Aurora never talked about her parents (their grandparents), and he suddenly realizes the cliché that is his mother—poor little rich girl who fell in with the wrong crowd, maybe drugs, maybe boys. Got pregnant and left home and never got clean. Died on her bathroom with a needle in her arm, only for her son to find her hours later.

So, Octavia is ripped away from him, and, two weeks later, as he sits in their tiny apartment, drinking himself into a stupor, he fucking hates everything. So much so that he leaves his place, drives the many miles to his grandparent’s home (a little tipsy), and walks into a lavish fucking party in a tee-shirt, jeans, and dirty workboots. It is a massive house, with white columns and bright windows, expensive cars parked around it.  

Everyone stares, and suddenly his arms is being pulled into one of the many hallways, and his tipsy mind barely registers, _Octavia._

“Bellamy!” and God, does she look different, red dress flowing around her feet, hair curled to perfection. It makes him feel like shit. But he feels instantly better when she launches herself into his arms, the sixteen year old clinging to the only family she really has left, and he to her.

Their moment is lost when their grandmother walks into the room, however, her lips pursed into that thin smile, nose wrinkled like she can smell the alcohol coming off him (she probably can, and it makes him a little sad that Octavia is so used to it she has said nothing). “It’s nice to see you, Bellamy.”

He stays silent, detangles himself from Octavia, and holds her green gaze, because she is certain she’s been trampling over people all her life, controlling every aspect of everything. But, he’s not a pawn, never will be. She surprises him though, by saying, “We got off on the wrong foot, Bellamy. It’s obvious that it was cruel to separate the two of you. I don’t think Aurora would have wanted that,” _what a bitch,_ “Why don’t you…stay, for a while. Take one of the rooms next to Octavia’s. It will help her adjust.”

From the look on O’s face, she definitely has not been adjusting well, and a squeeze to his arm makes him nod curtly.

This is how it starts.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke has no friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter came quicker than I thought. Trigger warnings from the prologue apply here, as well as some super dark humor. I in no way think drug abuse or death is funny. IN NO WAY. It's not really humor--it is characters being self-deprecating.

Clarke Griffin doesn’t have friends. She and her former platonic soulmate, Wells Jaha—fell out after her father died. What was once a close, seemingly unbreakable bond is in shambles, nothing more than polite avoidance and longing gazes from across the room, memories she tries to forget. In truth, Clarke Griffin has no one, until she meets Finn Collins.

Finn is new money, his long hair shaggy around his chin, smile boyish and eyes mischievous. When they meet, she is drunk on the roof of their private school, her father has just died, and her eyes are bleary with tears and the gin from one of her homes many liquor cabinet (sneaking out of the house and into the school is no problem, and the gin burns its way down her throat, washing disease away like rubbing alcohol).

“Hey,” and she turns around, blonde braid whipping in the wind. He wears his uniform casually, shirt untucked, tie loosened, blazer open. He sort of tilts his head at her, and sits down, grabs the bottle without even asking.

“Hey,” _hey_ , “you can’t drink alone, that’s totally pathetic.”

She wants to tell him to fuck off, to mind his own goddamn business, but then she realized, oh, wait. She’s not alone anymore.

The secrets come spilling from her lips after that, and they are suddenly hanging out every day. Wells looks confused and jealous as Finn pulls her away from the entrance to the class she has, and leads her out of the door. They skip class together, drink together, she throws her head back and laughs, and actually feels _light_ \--never mind that he gets her high for the first time, and they are both in the backseat of his (new) tesla, laughing their stomachs sore and spilling chili-cheese fries everywhere. When she comes home that night (late as all fuck) and her mother asks her where she had been, Clarke is so gone she cannot give a straight answer.

Abby grabs her by the chin, and, after searching her face, asks in horror, “Clarke Griffin…are you _high_?”

All Clarke does is burst into laughter.

Their relationship progresses quickly. Texting all the time, she even spends the night hidden away in Finn’s room (his parents are very liberal, crazy liberal, her mother calls them hippies). One night, after a horrible fight with her mother, she drives to his house without asking, donning a bottle of tequila. Strip poker leads to her losing her virginity on his bedroom floor, his mouth hot and warm on her neck, her hand a fist in his long hair, his cock driving into her.

And then, they are dating. And it’s bliss. And she thinks she might love him. It’s daddy issues, she’s sure, that makes her pull away from her mother and everything she’s been taught and fall in with her society’s less than savory character. After all, as nice as Finn’s parents are, they are still _nouveau riche_ \--small-time professors whose books sold millions and allowed them to enter high society. And even though their donations to Senator Jaha’s funds and Abby Griffin’s hospital allow them to stay everyone’s good graces, they still eat gluten-free and grow their own food, smoke pot with their son, and keep the windows in their house open so the light from the sun and the moon stream through always.

Abby, of course, hates it. Because Clarke spends more time with her boyfriend’s family than she does with her own, but Clarke thinks it’s because she’s happy. And because Abby knows Clarke doesn’t need her anymore. Maybe never did.

\---

When she meets the Blake siblings, however, things are different. Abby and Clarke sit in a town car as they make their way to Senator Jaha’s charity brunch. Clarke frowns down at her phone when she gets the message that Finn cannot make it. She is stuck trying make small talk and avoiding Wells for the rest afternoon. The knot in her chest that loosens up when she’s around Finn tightens again, and she shuts her eyes against what is to come.  
“Clarke?” her mother calls, a bit concerned.

Her blue eyes snap open, shift to Abby for a moment as a hand fiddled with her white, lace dress, and the pastel pink cardigan on top of it. She crossed her bare legs, and feigned nonchalance, but couldn’t keep the disappointment in her voice. “Finn’s not coming.”

There is a silence before her mom breathes out. “That’s too bad, honey,” _fucking bitch_ , “Don’t worry, _Wells_ will be there.”

_Fucking great._

The brunch is in the gardens behind the Senator’s home, sun shining overhead, white-clothed tables, colorful flowers and people dressed in their best business-casual. Brunch actually means mingling, cocktails and eating h'orderves as Jaha pumps the guests for money, and Clarke rolls her eyes at the sight. At Abby’s disapproval, she picks up a rather strong screwdriver from a waiter trailing around, not hesitating as she downs it (Finn has made her alcohol tolerance legendary) and reaches for another.

“Clarke, please. _Don’t embarrass me_ ,” At this, Clarke turns to her, mouth ready to retort and challenge, but her mother is gripping her arm urgently, and turning her around.

Before she can ask her what is going on, Abby is speaking in harsh tones. “Behind us. Freya and Antoine Blake’s grandchildren. Don’t be rude, and don’t speak to them for long.”  
  
Abby’s kind of dramatic, but then again, Clarke can be too. She ponders the Blakes, for a second, because their name sounds familiar—she must’ve caught some gossip slipping out of her mother’s bedroom when she was on the phone, or something. Blake? When she turns around, she recognizes the older women (Freya Blake, apparently) from her father’s funeral.

The two next to her must be the grandchildren. The girl (who she recognizes from being new at her school, thinks she’s a year below her) is a bit taller than her, but thin and wiry, her jawline sharp and her eyebrows scarily perfect. She looks at Clarke with a bit of a defiant glare, all fire in her khaki chinos and blue-and-white striped shirt. An impressive statement necklace gleams on her neck. The boy (man, really, Clarke realizes with a bit of a blush) is tall and looks bored, uncomfortable in grey slacks and a simple white button-down. His hair, though shorter, reminds Clarke of Finn because of its wildness. However, his looks soft to the touch, while Clarke is constantly having to remind Finn to condition.

“Freya!” Abby greets the older woman with a cheeriness that Clarke knows is fake as fuck. She stands to the side with her screwdriver, sipping as she looks anywhere but the people in front of her.

Freya smiles, and kisses her mother’s cheeks daintily, pulling back to look at Clarke.

“Darling Clarke. Don’t you look nice. How have you been, dear?”

 _How has she been?_ Seven months and people still ask her—how has she been. Clarke takes a long swig of her screwdriver. “Drunk,” she answers flippantly, her eyes lazy as she looks at the woman, who laughs quietly along with her mother (who chuckles through tightly gritted teeth), trying to make a joke of her response. The girl, on the other hand, snorts in surprised laughter. When Clarke looks at her, she is looking to her brother, whose eyebrow is raised in what she can only guess is indication of amusement.  
Freya clears her throat and gestures gracefully to her grandchildren. “Abby, Darling Clarke,” _it’s really just Clarke_ , “meet my grandchildren, Bellamy and Octavia—Abby Griffin is the chief of surgery at one of the best hospitals in the States. And her daughter, Clarke, is on her way to med school, too, I hear!” Clarke snorts at this, but wisely, everyone chooses to ignore her.

The older women starts to lay her next words on thick, and Clarke can see the scarily similar clench in both siblings' jaws. “After my poor daughter died, I couldn’t just allow them to slip by the wayside...”

Before Bellamy can speak a word out of his open mouth, Octavia pipes up with false cheer. “Yeah. Good ol’ granny took us in! She had to, after mom died. You know,” and what shocks her (all of them) most is that Octavia rolls up her sleeve and uses her fingers to smack mockingly at the vein in the junction of her arm, a bitter smile on lips. “She just couldn’t kick the heroin.”

There is a stiff, dreadful (hilarious) silence. Even her brother doesn’t know what to say, is looking at her as if she’s grown a second head and as if he is proud. Which Clarke kind of thinks is odd.

Clarke, on the other hand, feels destruction in her. Octavia lit the match and the alcohol was the gasoline. She downs the rest of her drink in one go, and chimes in, “Oh, that’s interesting. _My_ dad died because my _mother_ couldn’t be bothered keep her legs closed around the Senator!”

And, as if it cannot get worse, fuck, it did. Because the look on her mother’s face is something akin to a horror movie. There is no silence that follows, only the sound of Octavia and Bellamy howling in laughter, and the threat on her mother’s face is actually a promise.

\---

Later that afternoon, Clarke, Octavia, and Bellamy steal the vodka they are using to make screwdrivers and share among themselves, sitting in the grass ways away from the party. Bellamy only lets his sister have a bit before cutting her off, much to her vocal disagreement. Clarke, on the other hand, boasts carelessly about her legendary alcohol tolerance, and even though Bellamy raises a careful eyebrow at the claim, he passes her the bottle anyway, and she takes it to the head immediately. She gets several gulps down before Bellamy pulls it from her grasp, and a bit of the clear, harsh, liquid falls to the ground beneath them. It reminds Clarke of rain.

Clarke is trying to teach them how to survive in her society, even though Bellamy insist they won’t be staying long (when he says this the Blakes look at each other with a promise that is softer than the one her mother had on her face, but just as fierce).

“You at least need to know how to waltz,” she claims drunkenly, tugging Octavia to her feet, assuming the position of the male lead. “We have so many balls, it’s ridiculous.”

Bellamy quirks a smile at this. “That bother you, Princess?”

She ignores the jab, and twirls his sister around expertly, Octavia is a fast learner and fucking light on her feet. Clarke connects eyes with him over his sister’s shoulder, it is terribly hard to dance in the grass. “It was fun at first,” she calls out, over Octavia’s delighted laugh, spins the girl with ease. “But then…” she stops, much to Octavia’s disappointment and confusion. The sound of rain echoes in her head, and she picks up the bottle next to Bellamy. It touches her lips before he can protest. She watches him watches him watch her. The look on his face is something she cannot place in her drunken state

“Then what?” Octavia asks expectedly, as if she is a bit annoyed at the hanging story. Clarke shrugs, sadly, and that knot in her chest (that had surprisingly loosened when she spoke to the siblings) is back.

Bellamy couldn’t have noticed it (he must have) but he stands up with a sigh, not bothering to brush the grass from his legs or irked by the stains, and walk to her. “Alright then, Princess.”

“What?”

“What what? You’re the one who said I needed to learn how to waltz.”

Clarke can’t help but laugh as she takes up the male role, her hand on Bellamy’s waist and her shoes off and she leads them around the plot of grass. Octavia hollers with laughter. Sparing her a frustrated glance (that has no heat behind it, of course) Bellamy switches the script and grabs Clarke close by waist, pulling her toward him in seconds and taking the lead. Her head spins (maybe from the alcohol, maybe not) as his warm, large fingers find the softness of her hip. Jesus Christ. He’s tall. Solid. And, she notices absently, freckled.

“Clarke?”

Finn looks at them curious, trying for ease, but Clarke knows him well enough to know he is sneaking glances at the hand curved around her. She breaks out of Bellamy’s hold (perhaps too quickly) and goes to him, stumbling a bit (a lot). He looks amused when he asks, “Drunk already?”

This softens things, and Clarke gives him a playful shrug, the knot in her chest loosening finally at his teasing grin. He catches her hand and pulls her toward him, the look in his eyes melts her heart.

She makes the introductions quickly, not quite sure about the way Finn and Bellamy look at each other. Like they’re trying to figure each other out, find chinks in each other’s armor. And even drunk, she realizes that it’s only been about five minutes, and they don’t like each other.

\---

Later on, Finn fucks her as if he is trying to claim her. He sucks dark markings into her neck, kisses her dizzy, takes her fast and deep (how she like it), and holds her gaze. Even later on, when she drifts into drunken sleep on his bed, she can remember the heated press of a large hand on her hip, and because teenaged boys can’t make a girl come if their tongues vibrated, her body tingles even more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please comment, because it gives me life.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wells Jaha is hard to hate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, the new chapter came out quicker than I expected. But, I've had half of it written for days, so. This is one of the more tame chapters. No warnings, really.

“She was nice,” Octavia mentioned on their way home, and their grandmother is delighted at this. Bellamy just makes a noise that feigns disinterest, but Octavia knows him better than that. Later on, when it’s just the two of them, having late-night ice cream in the large, marble-countered kitchen, Octavia sighs from across the island.

“Okay, seriously, Bell. _No_.”

“What?”

He knows what. It’s not the way Clarke looks—like a _princess,_ blonde, blue eyes, pink mouth in a barely-smile (he thinks absently—curvy, killer rack). It is that she is inappropriate, angry (at her mother, at everything), gets sloppily drunk (after about half a bottle), is just as messed up as he is (if her humor is any indication), and (of course) has a boyfriend.

She is just his type. And Octavia knows it.

“She’s my _friend,_ ” the girl says with conviction.

“You’ve had _one_ conversation with her,” he shoots back under his laughter, “And she was drunk.”

Octavia looks at him triumphantly when she tells him, “She goes to my school. So does her _boyfriend_.”

But, Bellamy doesn’t bristle, just shrugs and gives Octavia that hint of an up-to-no-good smirk he knows she finds infuriating. In retaliation she digs her spoon into his and scoops out the chunk of chocolate with precision she has learned from him (he regrets teaching her that).

Then, Octavia gives him those puppy eyes—big and green, and pleading. “Bell. Please. She’s like, the only person I’ve met that actually isn’t super fake.” And of course, Bellamy wants to remind her that they won’t stay long, that he’s working on getting custody, that this is temporary. But, when he looks at Octavia, gaining healthy weight on her formerly too-skinny frame, in clothes that aren’t his hand-me-downs, he feels guilty. His surrender is processed by his sister before he even says it out loud, and she smiles brightly (it’s like the sun, all he really wants).

So, that is when Bellamy decides (reluctantly) to keep his dick out Clarke Griffin.

\---

It’s hard to do so, when she is everywhere he is. His grandparents drag him and his sister to functions every weekend. It is exhausting, even though he leans against the wall with a jack and coke and says nothing. One day it’s a charity brunch, the next day a luncheon at the country club, after that it’s a dinner party, then a fucking mixer. Fuck’s sake. Bellamy is certain that money means you do nothing but get together and talk about having money, and what’s you’re going to do with said money. It’s fucking boring, so he Octavia always sneak off with Clarke (and, often, her boyfriend) and pass the time doing something that isn’t mingling with snobs.

And, he realizes, for a privileged princess, Clarke actually knows how to have fun. It gives him thoughts he keeps to himself. Finn thanks himself for it, for “corrupting” her, but Clarke just rolls her eyes and gives him a playful, affectionate jab, which sort of annoys Bellamy.

He even gives her rides home, because (like Octavia so accurately predicted) she becomes amazing friends with his sister, despite being a year older and a senior. He can tell it stings Finn, because instead of getting into his (impossibly douchey) tesla, Clarke gives him a kiss before being pulled along by O to Bellamy’s beat up trunk. Rolling his eyes, he helps O into the open trunk (it’s dangerous, but she loves it, and even more she loves the wide-eyed, scandalized looks everyone is giving her) before lifting Clarke with the same ease. The hint of a smile is there before is blown wide, and Bellamy kind of thinks Clarke’s smile is almost as sunny as his sister’s.

The ride is eventful—classic rock is playing from the CD (yes) on his radio and Octavia is yelling profanities at every car that passes by. He vaguely hears Clarke’s laughter, it is caught in the wind. In the rearview mirror he sees the contrast of their hair whipping about. When he sees this, he feels better. And the guilt of not being able to give Octavia everything she’s ever wanted subsides. Because, at this moment, she is happy. And he is too.

\---

But, the thing is, that happiness comes with a price. He understands this when he is seated at dinner, across from Octavia, eating fucking filet mignon made the fucking family chef. Octavia is eating with gusto, as she always is, and Bellamy is pushing pieces around his plate. There is a stiff silence, as there always is with dinners.

“How was school, Octavia?” Antoine tries to break the harsh and deafening nothingness, but it only ends up making him look like a complete tool. But Bellamy has guessed this already—Antoine is completely pussy-whipped by Freya. Strong woman must run in the family, Bellamy thinks absently. Because while Aurora was weak-willed in her own right, Bellamy remembers her having fire in her eyes that resembles Octavia.

“It was whatever,” Octavia answers slowly, the look on her face is a bit annoyed at the question, like, _why are you talking to me?_

At the end of the table (Bellamy supposes it’s the way you look at it, but Freya’s seat is still nearest the door) Antoine nods agreeably, the idiot, and turns to Bellamy, who internally groans.

“I was thinking you could join me for some golf tomorrow afternoon, Bellamy.”

At this, Octavia almost chokes on her water. Bellamy glares at her, because she does not try to hide her smirk.

“Senator Jaha and I always golf on Tuesdays—he brings his son, Wells—“

Freya interrupts, “Wells Jaha. Such a nice young man! He goes to your school, Octavia—“

Octavia cuts her off, “I don’t know him.”

There is that laughter, high and false, coming from his grandmother, “That’s odd! He and Clarke Griffin have always been such good friends!”

That’s news to Bellamy, and he can tell it is even more so to Octavia, who scrunched up her nose in slight confusion. He understands, because he cannot imagine Clarke, blonde hair whipping in the wind, drunk off vodka and barefoot in the grass, being “good friends” with some stuck up Senator’s son.

In the end, he agrees to golf, because there is a price to keep Octavia getting good and wearing warm clothes and going to a good school—the price is golf.

\---

Bellamy shakes Wells hand with a bit of disdain, coughing into a closed fist. His father comes next, and Bellamy tries to keep his face straight as he remembers what Clarke said about him and her mother.

Also, as it turns out, Bellamy sucks at golf. Which is not even really a sport, he grumbles under his breath, but Wells hears anyway and snorts a little, after hitting the ball with perfect form.

“So…” he starts, driving the cart with ease. Bellamy’s grandfather and the Senator are in the car ahead of them. “You, um…I see you and your sister with Clarke.”

Bellamy raises an eyebrow. It’s weird, because he walks around and hears people mumbling about “new money” whenever Finn is about, but the guy is a pretentious cunt if there ever was one. On the other hand, Wells Jaha (for all his money and his Senator father) is actually really fucking hard to hate. But Bellamy tries anyway. He grunts out, “So?”

He watches as Wells struggles with his next words, but it’s nothing more than his brow being furrowed a bit. “How is she?” he asks softly.

Yeah. So hard to hate. Bellamy has no idea how to answer the question. When he looks at Clarke, he sees a mirror of his own sadness, anger, disappointment with life and the people around him. He knows Wells wouldn’t understand this. Bellamy is a good judge of character, and even now he can see that though sympathetic, respectable, etc, Wells has no idea what is means to be lost. So, he shrugs and says, “Drunk.”

Wells doesn’t laugh (Bellamy isn’t surprised), but he does sigh, and look even more conflicted than before. “I worry about her,” he admits, and Bellamy wants to point out that he isn’t the boy’s therapist, “She shouldn’t be hanging out with Finn. He’s a bad influence.”

Even though he somewhat agrees, Bellamy knows that he should steer far away from this topic. Because him admitting to Wells that Finn is a douchey boyfriend might actually lead to him finding an excuse to fuck her. Which he promised Octavia he wouldn’t do. But, as he turns to watch Wells, the sadness, and longing in his eyes, Bellamy realizes. "Seriously?" he asks, annoyed.

"What?"

Bellamy can't help it, he laughs, shaking his head. "You're actually in love with her!"

" _What?"_

"Come on, kid. It's obvious. And a little pathetic. I'm pretty sure you're not her type--she doesn't seem into good guys." When he realizes what he implies, he wants to take it back, because Wells is now looking at him suspiciously. He can feel his jaw clench, and maybe he gets a little defensive.

" _I care about her_. She's in a bad place right now--"

"Look, kid, I’m not your therapist, but I’m sure your daddy can afford one.”

Bellamy can’t really hate Wells. And, as if this is familiar territory for the boy, Wells settles into a little bit of a mocking smile.

“You know, it’s pretty ridiculous to talk down on me for having money. Look where you are. You’re practically one of us.”

 _Little asshole._ But, as Bellamy loses game after game of golf (fucking golf) to the Senator’s son, he can’t shake the nagging feeling that Wells might be right.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! This is one of the more tame (and short) chapters, but the next two are going to be more explicit.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke might be friends with Bellamy Blake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's rushed. But, it's a Clarke chapter, so it's angsty. Trigger warnings(!!) for implied suicide, implied drug use, mental illness, a tiny bit of self-harm (that I promise won't be a recurring thing).

The day after the charity brunch, Clarke returns to school, and she is certain that she can still feel the sting on her face where her mother’s hand slapped her. She should have expected it, because of what she said in front of the Blakes, but fuck if she didn’t look at her mother with shock and betrayal and hatred.

It is a normal Monday, at first, she’s at the lockers with Finn leaning over her, his smile boyish and his eyes fond. He tucks blonde hair behind her ear, eyes ghosting from that to her eyes to her lips, and Clarke absently thinks she can die happy, just like this, with the smell of his shampoo fanning over her, his face so close his long hair tickles her nose.

His friends (a dynamic duo that Finn affectionately calls “Jasty”) clamber over and disturb the moment. With a wide, goofy (and embarrassed) smile on his face, one-half of the pair (Jasper) is apologizing for breaking the moment, asking them if they want to skip class. Clarke knows he only includes her to be polite. She doesn’t have friends—Jasper and Monty are Finn’s, having latched onto him the first week, a perfect pair of sidekicks. Though they might like her, she is only an extension of him. She’s known the two of them since she was young—Monty’s parents are agricultural geniuses from Korea, and he’s spent his whole life living with Jasper’s family, who are expert chemists.

Finn is about to answer when Jasper starts suddenly, looking down the hallway with a dazed look on his face. He grabs at Monty frantically, but otherwise he is still, eyes locked on—

Clarke looks in the direction Jasper cannot stray from. And there, in all her glory, is Octavia Blake, walking down the hallway, and Clarke swears it’s in slow motion. Her shirt is untucked, her tie loose, and her blazer is gone. She has her sleeves rolled up and Clarke knows that her skirt is a bit too short to be regulation. When the younger girl flips her long, shiny hair over her shoulder, Clarke hears Jasper whimper. But, what is most attractive about Octavia is not her shouldering eyes or her sharp features or long legs. It is that she walks down the hall with utter confidence, knowing that boys’ (and some girls’) eyes are on her and stuck in-between loving it and not giving a shit. Clarke can never muster that.

“She’s coming, she’s coming, _act cool_!” Jasper acting cool is actually him leaning conspicuously against the lockers with his arms crosses, trying to look everywhere but the girl who has made a beeline for them.

“Hey, Clarke. Finn,” she says simply.

Before she can says anything, Finn lets out an amused, “Hey. Um. This is Jasper. And Monty. Guys, this is Octavia Blake.”

Monty smiles and raises his hand in greeting, but Jasper lets out a loud, nervous laugh. “Hey!”

Octavia barely processes him, her attention is on Clarke. “So, are we skipping, or what?”

Octavia is pressed in the backseat between Monty and Jasper. They are (of course) high, and laughing. Octavia has charmed them within about thirty minutes, especially Jasper. Especially Clarke, who her arm loops through when they are walking. Finn has driven them miles into the city, away from their little suburb, and they walk past bars and boutiques. Clarke looks over to the girl in surprise and Octavia grins without the shadows or hiding, and it makes Clarke smile back.

\---

After that day, Clarke realizes that the Blakes come as a packaged deal. Octavia is extremely close to her brother. It’s sort of stupid how there is a pang of longing when they play fight, or when Bellamy messes with her hair and gets her in headlock, how Octavia doubles over with laughter when she sneakily trips him. It makes her as if what she has with the people around her is pathetic. Her mother’s disappointed glare, Jasper and Monty’s careful words, even her relationship with Finn. Clarke begins to think that it’s superficial, skin-deep.

She goes through the motions, school (barely), Finn, and recently, Octavia and Bellamy. She attends parties, gets drunk off the open bar. She stares at the unused easel in the corner of her long room. She feels empty.

Clarke sits at her vanity one morning, getting ready for class, eyes peering into the mirror curiously. She picks up a pair of sharp tweezers, and without thinking about it, pinches the skin on her arm hard. The pain snaps her back, and so does ringing of a familiar tone from her iPhone. Finn is outside, waiting for her.

\---

“What happened there?” Bellamy ask later, nodding his head to the bruise on her forearm. They lay in Octavia’s room. She sleeps, her head toward the end of the huge bed, light from the film they were watching dances across her face. Clarke watches it for a moment, the shadows on her small, sharpe features, and turns to him.

“What?” She looks down, and is a bit surprised. Because she barely remembers it. Barely recognizes it. “Oh. Nothing.” She shrugs. She’s glad he lets it go.

\---

Clarke only notices she starts spending less time with Finn when he mentions it to her. That he’s barely seen her, and only then does she realize she’s spent every day for the last seven months or so with Finn, and having a couple days to spend with her new friend(s) must be a little odd for them. But, it doesn’t seem that way to her. Couples don’t have to see each other every day, do they? But when he mentions Bellamy, she realizes what he wants to say but is too proud. He’s jealous. Not of her friendship with Octavia, but of her friendship with Bellamy.

Could one even call it a friendship? He picks her up from her house and takes her to his, where they (and Octavia) spend time laughing and talking. They go out for junk food. He picks them up from school, lifts her into his open trunk. He even throws her arm around her, like he does with Octavia. And Clarke would be lying if she didn’t say it causes a ripple to start in her.

But, she does lie, takes Finn’s face in her hands and kisses him, feels his hands slide up her side and push her down unto his bed.

\---

Everything is going as good as it can be. But, then Wells decides that silence and longing gazes isn’t enough for him. He sits beside her during lunch, setting his tray down and sliding in next to her. Their food is not the typical high school horror story. Today it is honey-glazed chicken and kale salad, but Clarke still prefers the loaded fries she and Finn get when they skip class and go to the city.

“You’re not eating.”

Clarke shakes her head. “I’m waiting for Finn and Octavia.”

“I met her brother the other day,” Clarke looks at him, now. All tension, but still the friendly guy she knows (and loves). “He was…kind of a dick.”

This makes Clarke laugh a little bit, and Wells does too. Suddenly, seven months has disappeared and they are just two best friends, and their parents are not destroying lives just to sleep together.

“We played golf.”

Clarke looks at him incredulously. “Bellamy played _golf?_ ”

“Something like it. He was horrible, Clarke, I mean _bad._ ”

“Not everyone can have perfect form,” she teases, and he shrugs, feigns cockiness before looking at her searchingly.

“He’s seems like a nice guy, though. Apart from his swing. Cares about his sister,” _true,_ “Cares about you.”

This startles her, and Wells knows her so well he can see that. She thinks her heart might skip a beat, and that she can feel his hands around her waist, lifting her up, like there are marks imprinted there. Wells seems to know everything she (and everyone else) is thinking. He is intuitive, annoyingly so. Gives people space when they need it. Gives soft truths, forgives utterly.

“We’re friends,” she tells him sternly. She had said the words to Finn earlier. Denied her silly little crush, tried not the think about his hands, or how he looks when he smiles, or the way she glances over and he has met her eyes with the tiniest hint of a smirk, like he knows. It is harder to lie to Wells.

Clarke wants to be a _girl._ Ask, _what did he say, what did he say about me?_ But she doesn’t. Instead, she gives Wells a hard look and ask, “Why are you here?” And that hurts him, she can tell.

“I miss you, Clarke,” and it kind of breaks her heart. “I miss us.”

This breaks _her._ “There is no ‘us’. There hasn’t been an ‘us’ since your dad killed mine,” she rushes out of the cafeteria, out of the double doors or the school, and doesn’t look back. Doesn’t answer her phone until Bellamy calls her for the second time.

It’s getting dark by the time he picks her up, and Clarke has walked miles in her school-regulation loafers, settled at a park. She slides into his dingy pick-up truck. She notices Octavia is nowhere to be found, but remembered that she joined the cheer squad, and they have practice late. Only that girl could be utterly defiant, skip class and smoke under the bleachers, and then be the brightest member on the cheerleading team, angering the other members and enticing football players. She is an enigma.

For a second they sit in silence, but then he breaks it. “So, this is where you’ve been. What did you even do for six fucking hours?” he ponders.

Clarke shrugs. “Think. Try not to think. Avoid everyone.”

Bellamy hums, fingers drumming the steering wheel. “Might want to call your boyfriend. From all the messages he’s sent me, he’s worried.”

Clarke closes her eyes, leans back in the seat. “Take me somewhere. Anywhere. Just not back there.”

Bellamy stays quiet for a moment, but she then she can hear him breathe out and turn on the engine (it sounds like it needs a tune up, and Clarke knows he won’t let his grandparents buy him a new car).

They drive for almost an hour, and Clarke almost falls asleep. He wakes her with a gruff, “We’re here.”

She opens her eyes, and doesn’t at all recognize this part of town. “Where are we?”

“Home.”

\---

Bellamy lets her inside, the door gets a little stuck, and Clarke looks at a tiny apartment just a little bigger than her bedroom. It’s cluttered, with a thread-bare couch and beer bottles on the coffee table, which Bellamy doesn’t hesitate to pick up.

“Got any more of those? Maybe, with beer still in them?” she attempts to be light. But, this is where they were living, her friends, in the worst part of the city, far away from her suburban dream outside. In a tiny apartment with sirens wailing outside.

He snorts, and when he comes back, there are two cold, open beers in his hand, and he offers her one.

They settle on the couch, and she hears him chuckle when she guzzles almost half of the bottle down.

“So,” she starts, wiping her mouth, “Is this the part where we talk? You ask me what happened, and what’s wrong?” Her eyebrow raises, and she looks at him expectedly.

The smirk that is always settled on his face is back, and she swears the breath is knocked out of her when he takes a long sip, because his eyes are still trained on her.

(Absently, she notices this is a bad idea. Because she is with her friend’s hot brother in the worst part of town, drinking beer. And there is no Finn to keep a tight leash on her. There is no Octavia to keep her leveled. There is only the lull of his dark eyes fanning the heat between her legs.)

“Okay,” he tilts his body toward her end of the couch. “What happened?”

The truth will keep her from crawling over to him and sitting in his lap, so she says, “My dad killed himself. He hanged himself in his study.”

Even in the dim light of the room, she sees his eyes narrow a little bit, and all traces of humor are gone.

“My mom overdosed in the bathroom,” he said quietly.

And so they are so close to death. Creepily close. Next room close.

“He was sick. In and out of hospitals for depression. He found out my mom was sleeping with Jaha and it pushed him over the edge.”

Bellamy’s eyes don’t leave her. “You blame her.”

Without waiting a beat, Clarke says, “I blame everyone.”

“Even your dad?”

Clarke has never heard this outside of her own head, and suddenly, she’s a bit angry. “Do you blame your mom?”

The sardonic smile he gives Clarke is good, so good. She recognizes it from the mirror. “Of course I do,” he says matter-of-factly, breaking the tension by drinking more. “She let the drugs control her. She would stop, and then start again. She chose the drugs over her family,”

“My dad wasn’t on drugs!” she raises her voice, but Bellamy doesn’t budge.

“But he still didn’t choose you. He chose-- I don’t know--his sadness, his illness, _your mom_ , maybe death, over you.”

The truth fucking hurts. Clarke stands up, the beer falling from her hands and not shattering on the carpet. The knot in her chest tightens impossibly. There are tears streaming down her face. The _“fuck you_ ,” she spits out has more malice than anything she’s ever said, but Bellamy still wraps his arms around her and she fights him, pushing against him, rages like a wild cat, until she’s tired and he follows her unto the floor.

As she breathes heavily into his shoulder, clings to him, she can only think about how good he smells, how nice he feels. She thinks about her father and wonders whether Abby was so important he was willing to die if he couldn’t have all of her. How someone can put everything into one woman and dissolve when she is lost. How she wants to open Bellamy up, curl into the cage of his chest, and just _rest_ there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, and please comment, it makes me so happy and motivated. The next chapter is already written, so that'll be coming soon. Feat. Finn being a fuckboy and Bellamy not keeping his promise to Octavia about Clarke.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finn Collins might just be a scumbag.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time to introduce Raven (sort of). Trigger warnings(!!!) for infidelity/cheating, alcohol abuse, drugs (barely), and somewhat explicit sex.

When they wake up, Clarke is laying on Bellamy’s chest, and his face is buried in her hair. That’s when he knows he’s fucked. He’s beneath her on the couch, his neck sore because the arm rest under his head is hard. Because he’s an early riser (when he hasn’t gotten fucked up and passed out the night before) he knows it’s morning. He has things to do, and he almost kicks himself because he remembers that he forgot to pick up Octavia from cheerleading practice. _Fuck._

So, he wakes up the sleeping blonde and announces he has to go to work, trying to forget the blush on her cheeks when she realizes her position on top of him (he hopes it isn’t because she feels his morning wood).

“You work?” And Bellamy can’t help but roll his eyes as he walks into the bedroom he used to share with Octavia, throwing on clean clothing before going to the bathroom.

“How the fuck am I going make money if I don’t?” he deadpans, eyes drifting to the floor for a moment, and he can still see Aurora with her eyes open and dead.

He comes out, somewhat fresh, and when he takes in her messy hair and wrinkled uniform, he has to stop his mind from thinking words like, _adorable_.

“I just thought…” she starts, looking at him curiously, still waking.

And Bellamy breathes out, not quite a sigh, and grabs his keys from the counter. “I told you we weren’t staying long. Once I get enough money to pay a lawyer, I can get custody of O, and we’re gone.” He steals a glance over his shoulder, and Clarke is nodding slowly, glued to her place on the couch. He knows it must hurt her, maybe, to lose O (and maybe him too) but it can’t be helped. They don’t belong in Clarke’s world, they’re just visiting.

“Where am I supposed to go?”

He raises an eyebrow at the question, because at first he thinks Clarke is talking about something else. But then he realizes, scoffing a bit before settling at the door. “I don’t know…school?” he answers, and crosses his arms, tilts his head. She looks sad, he thinks, and sighs. “You should go back. You don’t belong here.” There she is, nodding again, biting her lip, and Bellamy wants to detangle it with his thumb.

He drops her off at her house, even though it’s almost eleven am and she should be in school. She tells him not to wait to give her a ride, doesn’t even lie and confesses that she’s not going. Bellamy orders her to call Octavia (doesn’t say shit about Finn), and she promises she will.

When he’s at work, waiting tables at the convenient little café in the city, trying to smooze for tips, Bellamy knows he’s fucked. Because the smell of her hair is still around him, and it still tickles his cheek, soft.

\---

Then, everything starts to fall apart. Finn is up for an award. He’s a writer (shocker) and won a national contest, which is so prestigious they're giving him a fucking plaque. Good for him. Bellamy sees right through the guy. He doesn’t want to go, but Octavia tells him that Clarke will be with Finn all night, and of course, she will be bored. So he drinks on white wine (fucking wine), and watches Finn get an admittedly impressive plaque for some short story he did on ‘creation and peace’, or whatever.

The night is going smooth, until the mixer starts. He stands with Octavia and two boys (one of which is obviously in love with her) and one of them (the one in love with his her) is whispering, “Oh, _shit._ ”

He turns to where his eyes are widely staring, and sees a dark haired girl with her arms around Finn, and mouth on his. Clarke stands beside them looking utterly wounded and helpless, and when the girl pulls away, Finn looks caught between awe and dread. The girl is actually fucking attractive, her face lights up, her skin is olive and smooth, she’s clad in a lacy, black dress, her thick hair falls over her shoulders, and her smile is crazy-beautiful.

Bellamy frowns. He didn't expect the night to be so eventful (entertaining), because he thinks he’s about to watch hell come to Earth. There is something about the way Finn and the girl look at each other (familiarity, _love,_ he realizes) and his eyes move to Clarke. She looks as if she’s about to fall over, or as if she’s about to burn everything to the ground. Something in his gut clenches. Something makes him want to go to Clarke and put her in his car and drive back to his tiny little apartment in the city.

But then, his sister (who has left his side), is beside her in seconds, tugging her by the arm. He’s far from them, but he can still hear Octavia speaking to Finn in that voice when he reaches around the girl to Clarke, the one that she spoke in when she addressed their grandparents for the first time, fierce, deadly, untamed—

“- and if you come anywhere near her again and I will fucking _end you.”_

But Finn reaches for Clarke again, his lips mouthing her name, and Octavia does it—she shoves him so hard, he barrels into the white-haired man behind him. Bellamy chuckles, proud. Finn should know better than to fuck with Octavia (or what is Octavia's). And the beautiful, dark-haired girl must realize what has happened, why her boyfriend (or whatever, Bellamy doesn’t care) is reaching for some other girl. Sucks. But she doesn’t leave Finn’s side, and Bellamy has to wonder why. When Clarke and Octavia reach them, the boy (again, the one in love with his sister) is rambling on, asking if Clarke is okay, _what just happened_?

Again, Octavia turns to him, eyes steel and fire, and he shrinks back. Bellamy smirks, almost shakes his head. Poor guy. Nothing good can come of being in love with Octavia Blake when you’ve got no spine. Her hand laces through Clarke’s and the blonde girl is pulled along like a rag dog.

In Bellamy’s truck, Octavia explodes.

“He’s _dead,_ Clarke,” she starts, and Bellamy can see that they haven’t let their hands go from the rearview mirror. “I will _kill him_ for you.”

Clarke is silent for a moment, and looks up, Bellamy doesn’t have to look in a mirror to know his eyes look concerned, because Clarke has pushed everything down. He and O can’t do that—they have emotions running all over their skin.

“She seemed really nice,” Clarke says.

\---

Later on, Clarke is wasted (of course). He is putting her in one of the guest rooms, taking off her shoes, trying to tuck her into bed.

“Was she prettier than me?” Clarke asks suddenly, eyes boring into his.

Bellamy knows what she wants to hear, what she wants him to say. He has a little sister, he knows when girls are fishing for compliments to make themselves feel better, and usually, he doesn’t put up with it. But he looks at Clarke for a second, wants to tell the truth, call Finn and ask him how he can even think about looking at someone else. Sure the girl was pretty, in a way that Clarke couldn’t be. But this is Clarke, steely and hardened, sweet and utterly messed up. He likes that so much.

But, she is still laughing sardonically, her head down, hands balled into her hair. He reaches up to gently tug them away, doesn’t not expect her to use that moment to kiss him.

Bellamy doesn’t consider himself a good guy. He really doesn’t. He’s had drunken hookups before, has been the rebound countless times. But this—Clarke with her mascara smudged, her hands roaming hurriedly over his chest, inching lower, her voice against lips, pleading _I need you, Bell, I want you—_ he can’t do it. So he pulls away, grasps her hands in his, and says sternly, “We can’t.”

“Why not?” she says in that same voice, so breathy.

“Because you just found out your boyfriend’s a piece of shit and you’re drunk.”

There is a pause. But, Clarke isn’t hurt by her own truth, not more than she already is by the situation. Instead, she says, eyes a little more focused, “I see how you look at me when you think I’m not looking.”

At this, Bellamy smirks. “Believe me, Princess. I know you’re looking.”

She is silent for another moment, and just as she sways her phone rings. At first, Bellamy thinks it is her mother, that perhaps she heard about the news and is wondering where she is. But, he sees Finn’s name flash on her iPhone, a picture of him and Clarke accompanying it. She hesitates, and then looks up at him (asking permission, saying sorry). Bellamy couldn’t care less (he does, ugh) and walks out of the room with a humorless chuckle. When he shuts the door, he can hear her answer the phone with a tearful, “Hello?”

\---

Next Monday, when Bellamy picks Octavia up from school, his sister hugs Clarke goodbye (pointedly giving Finn a dirty look, who has his arm wrapped around the blonde) and walks to the truck. For the sake of not acting like a child who didn’t get his way, he gives the couple a curt nod.

\---

Everything continues to fall apart at Finn’s birthday party. Bellamy realizes that Finn’s parents are crazy, because the amount of drugs in this house can get them all arrested and put away from the rest of their lives. He warns Octavia about touching anything that isn’t alcohol, somberly, because drugs are off limits to kids who have buried their mother with track marks between her toes. She rolls her eyes at him, but he sees the tension in her shoulders, the darkness in her eyes, and even though he knows he might have hurt her, she will be safe tonight.

He makes his way around Finn’s large, bohemian-looking house. Everything is paisley and woodsy. It’s kind of comfy, a little pretentious. He keeps a trained eye on Octavia, who is currently being chatted up by the same boy from the mixer. He’s too skinny, lanky, and awkward. He has googles on the top of his head and is talking nervously, but Octavia laughs, smiles at him fondly. Bellamy finds that curious, because he’s not O’s type (if douchebag is a type).

It is only when he has to decline a curiously green pill with an alien’s face printed on it that he gets fed up, leaves and walks to the backyard. In the distance, he sees Clark and Finn on the other side of the crowd. He has her back pushed against a tree, is whispering in her ear, his hand is slipping up the short length of her red, flowy dress. Her hand clutches Finn’s shoulder (tight, by the looks of things) and from where he is standing a few feet away her eyes look black. Those eyes make his pants tighter in the front. When Finn’s hand reaches higher, higher, and _higher,_ Clarke’s eyes flutter (they don’t shut, fuck) and her mouth falls open the tiniest bit and his knows exactly where he is touching her. He bites back a groan, letting his jaw clench and his body tense, and somehow, Bellamy thinks Clarke can see it because she bites her bottom lip and he can’t take it anymore. He’s fucked. So fucked. He has to go.

\---

Bellamy splashes cool water on his face, trying to calm down. He is coming out of the bathroom when it actually, legitimately, _finally_ _fucking falls apart._ He lets it fall apart. Because he is coming out, and Clarke is coming in, and after their eyes connect, he drags her inside the lavish bathroom and pushes her against her door, not stopping a beat before crashing his lips to hers. He has no idea what comes over him, because Bellamy was content with finding another pretty girl and fucking her in his truck and satisfying an itch. Unfortunately, it’s not just an itch.

She kisses him back like she’s been waiting her whole life to do so, moaning wantonly into his mouth, tugging roughly at his hair. It’s a little animalistic, a little scary, and so fucking good when their tongues connect. Bellamy can’t help the bruise of his fingers into the delicate, pale skin of her thigh, can’t help the way he bites savagely at her neck, can’t help himself from lifting her on top of the bathroom counter and fucking her at her boyfriend’s birthday party, in her boyfriend’s house, in her boyfriend’s bathroom. He honestly wishes he had a bed and time to taste every inch of her, but he takes a few seconds to slide the straps and top of her dress down and cover her exposed nipple with his mouth, work his fingers into her pussy and swear at how wet she is. 

And there she is in his ear, panting, "I want you, Bell, I need you..." just like the other night. But, she isn't drunk and crying, and her words fall into a moan when he palms her breast firmly. Absently, he wants to be gentle, but, _fuck it,_ she's not as delicate as everyone (as he) thinks she is. She's not china. She won't break.

So instead he kisses her, maybe like an apology for the bite mark on her neck, for the bruise blossoming on her thigh. And says (not asks), "Do you know how long I've wanted you?" Her response is to drag her nails down his back from where she has them under his shirt.

He fucks her fast and _hard_ , so hard that she braces herself by putting a palm against the wall connected to the mirror behind them. Sooner rather than later, his mouth is on hers, his fingers are hard on her clit and he has to cover her mouth with his other hand to stifle her scream when she comes. He presses his teeth into her shoulder as he follows her, she has barely come down before his hands palm her ass, using it a leverage to drive into her.

And _fuck_ , she doesn’t even wait for their breathing to slow before whispering in Bellamy’s ear, _“I knew you were looking.”_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank you for reading, and please comment, it gives me life and motivates me. I'm finding it hard to squeeze my love for Jactavia in this story, so when it's over, I'll most likely be writing a companion piece revolving around their part.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke Griffin loses a friend (but the sex was great).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I stay up until 5 am writing because I don't love myself. Trigger warnings(!!) for angst, because it's a Clarke chapter and that's what happens. Cheating/infidelity, mentions of suicide and mental illness, minor violence.

The weekend floats by quickly. Clarke avoids everyone but Bellamy and Octavia, she’s taken up residence in their one grandparents’ guestroom, and when Octavia falls asleep, she tiptoes into Bellamy’s room, feet silent on the hardwood floor, the oversized shirt she wears to sleep barely skimming her thighs. She slips into the crack of his door and sometimes he is awake, reading by lamplight. Immediately, she can see the twitch in his smile, acknowledging her presence before he even looks at her. Other times he is asleep, or getting there, eyes closed, head on the pillow, and she just slips in, under the covers. Molds herself into the curves and edges of his body and when he wakes up he isn’t even surprised to see her there. Isn’t surprised when it’s hard for her to leave the warmth, sneak out, and pretend there is nothing more than friendship between them.

It’s kind of horrible, the way it happens. Bellamy had fucked her at her boyfriend’s birthday party and again when they left together. Once, on the side of the road, Clarke straddling him and trying not to lean against the car horn. Next, in his bed, his head between her trembling legs. It really is horrible. Seven months with Finn and he’d never gone down on her, never made her come. One night with Bellamy Blake and he does. Three times.

They really don’t pretend to hide what it is, even though Clarke has a hard time putting a label on it. “I can get laid anytime,” he shrugs, when asked the question, stroking her hair fondly. Her head is tucked under his chin, her arm hugging his side. No, it’s not just sex.

Even though it is great sex. He fucks like he is. Honest, open, bruising, fucking rough and passionate. Takes his time mapping every inch of her, almost teaching her.

It’s something that makes her want every single piece of someone she barely knows. Maybe want to eat his heart, she doesn’t know.

Everyone calls her, in the meantime. Her mother leaves angry voicemails, she doesn’t pick up when Wells texts, and she ignores Finn like his voice carries the plague.

Instead, she lies down with Bellamy in the middle of the day. Octavia has skipped off to go shopping with Jasper Jordan (Bellamy finds this curious), and when Clarke frowns, says she’s not feeling well, Octavia rolls her eyes and gives her brother a searching look. Never mind that Clarke stands an appropriate number of feet away from him.

Her phone rings once more, and she doesn’t try and reach for it, leaves Bellamy to reach to the bedside table and wave it in her face. Finn’s name and a familiar picture flash in front of her, and dread rushes through Clarke instantly. She groans, shoving her face deeper in the curve of Bellamy’s neck.

He responds by giving her the amused little chuckle, ignoring the call and setting it on the table. “Can’t avoid him forever. It’s a small community.”

She groans again.

“What _are_ you going to tell him, by the way?” Bellamy muses, fingers lazily drawing abstract circles on her shoulder. “I suppose you can pass it off as a revenge fuck, say you’re even now.”

And that makes her lit her head, stare at him, and the amused look on his face has something behind it, like he’s challenging her (like always), trying to get her to confess (like always). On one hand, Finn broke her heart, but she would never forget the comfort that lies inside of him, the easy smile. On the other hand, Bellamy might just be a fucking monster, and she realizes that’s part of the reason she likes him. That day in his apartment, crying in his arms, angry at everything. That he’s fucked up, but he’s honest, brutally so, and makes her want to be honest to. Makes her want to be vicious.

“What do you want me to say?” she asks quietly, because she can’t stand when he’s passive-aggressive, plays games. It’s not like him.

It doesn’t even take a beat for him to answer. “Call him back, tell him you haven’t been answering his calls because you’ve been in bed with me all weekend.”

She hides behind a mask of neutrality, but the pause she takes is long enough for Bellamy to smirk in that way of his, like he knows he’s won. What, she’s not sure, but Clarke recognizes self-deprecation when she sees it.

“And when Octavia comes back you can tell her what we’ve been doing when she’s asleep.”

Bellamy chokes on a surprised laugh, and then he is smiling. “That’s not the same, and you know it,” he remarks quietly. And Clarke has been hanging around the Blakes too long. Because the impulse she’s picked up from them combines with the destruction in her, and she reaches across Bellamy and grabs her phone.

The smile on Bellamy’s face is surprised when she taps Finn’s name.

“Clarke! Babe, where the fuck have you been, I’ve been calling you for days. No one saw you leave the party—“

“Sorry,” she deadpans, her eyes never leaving Bellamy’s face, who’s eyes are wide. “I haven’t been answering your calls because I’ve been in bed with Bellamy all weekend.”

And he bursts into laughter, throws his head back against the pillow, because even now, he’s won.

\---

That was a bad idea. Seconds after Octavia has arrived home, Jasper dragging her bags, Finn shows up at the Blake house, face red with anger, slamming his fist into the door. When Octavia answers, all Clarke can hear is _, “Where is she, where the fuck is she?”_

Clarke comes down the stairs, Bellamy in tow, and even though she holds her hands up, tries to reason with him, has never seen Finn (her Finn) like this, he shoves her aside and lays a punch on Bellamy’s face. Which, of course, sends Octavia into a rage. The brunette is spitting venom, and Jasper has good sense to hold her back.

From her place on the floor, Clarke looks up at her boyfriend with horror. Bellamy is gripping the end of the railing, hand on his cheek.

“You fucked my girlfriend,” is all Finn says, voice hard.

Clarke hears Jasper let out a, “Whoa...” and when she glances at Octavia, she sees disdain in her eyes. Clarke looks away, she can’t bare it.

Bellamy coughs, and when he stares Finn down, there’s something she can't place, and he shrugs, says, “Yeah, I did.”

“Son of a bitch-“

Clarke rushes to her feet, holds Finn back—her back to Bellamy, her hands on Finn’s chest, warmth sinking into her palms. “ _Stop it, please.”_

In his eyes are so much pain Clarke wants to cry. “Is this about Raven? Because I told you, that was a mistake—“

“It’s not about Raven!” Clarke shouts. But, part of it is, of course. It’s that, and the feeling of Bellamy’s teeth flashing against her neck, how he scares her with her own truths, and that even when she’s not with him she can still feel him. But it’s also about Raven, about her own insecurities, about the way Finn pleads with her now, grips her by her upper arms while everyone looks on.

“I love you, Clarke,” and it’s the first time he says it, and Clarke almost swoons. “Do you love me? Tell me the truth.”

She cannot look away from his eyes, where the bore into hers, and knows she cannot lie. “I don’t know anymore.”

Finn swallows visibly, something in his gaze flickers, but doesn’t give up, and Clarke wants to know why, if he had a girl like Raven waiting in the wings (with her thick hair and red lips and perfect body and shiny smile), would be here, punching Bellamy in the face, trying to convince her.

“You have to go,” Clarke tells, trying to step away, but he holds her fast—

“I’m not leaving without you.”

Clarke opens her mouth to speak, but Octavia beat her to it. “Take the bitch with you!” she spits out viciously, and Clarke looks over in shock. Octavia is still held by Jasper—he stands a bit in front of her, an arm around her waist, and her hand clings to his shoulder. There is utter hurt and anger in her eyes, and Clarke realizes she just lost another friend. Day in the life. “You heard me! Get the fuck out!” When Clarke stays still, stunned, Octavia bucks in Jaspers grip, almost gets free on the element of surprise, and Clarke flinches.

She doesn’t look at Bellamy when she walks out of the door, but she can feel his eyes on her, heat and chill on her spine.

\---

She tells him to drive her home. When Finn says he wants to talk, that they should go someone and _talk,_ Clarke loses it, tears unshed in her eyes, she hits the dashboard, yells, and commands to be taken home. And so they sit in her long, spiraling driveway, in silence.

“Do you love him?” Finn asks, bitterly.

Clarke is too tired to lie, to pretend. She thinks about Finn, about the feeling she used to get when he touched her hand or smiled at her. She thinks about Bellamy, the burn inside of her when his hands brush her hair away from his face. She thinks about her father, who loved so hard he let it kill him.

“I don’t think I know how to love anything.”

\---

She spends the rest of the day getting drunk in her room, and when a maid shakes her awake with a pitying smile and a tall glass of water, she finally resurfaces the next afternoon, and her mother sits with a stranger in the living room.

“Sweetheart,” _sweetheart?_ “Have a seat.”

Clarke stands in the doorway, still wearing Bellamy’s shirt and a pair of boy shorts, her hair a tangled mess and her eyes red. “I’m good here,” she croaks out.

Abby starts to protest, but the stranger smiles easily, holds out a hand to stop her. The man is old, with grey hair, wrinkles, and kind eyes behind round glasses. His sweater vest looks itchy.

“That’s completely fine, Clarke, whatever makes you comfortable,” he complies, leaning back in his chair.

And that’s weird. Clarke narrows her eyes suspiciously. “What is this?” she asks slowly.

Before her mother can speak, the old man does. “Clarke, my name is Dr. Graham. I work with your mother. She asked me here today because she’s concerned for you.”

Clarke knows her mother well enough to understand what’s happened. “Concerned about what?”

“Well, she’s told me that your father’s passing has not only left a wedge between the two of you, but that she’s fears you are…acting out. Having mood swings, displaying depressive behavior. Now, it’s very common to fall into depression after the death of a loved one, and I’m sure you do know that mental illnesses run in families—“

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Clarke can’t help but let that out.

_“Clarke—“_

She turns heel and leaves the room, doesn’t have to look behind her to know that Abby is following her, calling her name, grabbing her arm and spinning her around.

“You called a psychiatrist?” Clarke yelled. She was unleashed now, her head was pounding.

“I am worried about you,” Abby hissed desperately. “You’ve spent the last seven months running around with that Collins boy, coming home drunk and _drugged_ , you’re skipping school, you disappear for hours, for  _days_ —“

It’s at the top now, overflowing. “So you’re worried I’m going to kill myself, too?”

It is like someone stabbed Abby in the heart. And Clarke realizes that she did that, and that Abby is Clarke, but grown-up, better at hiding her emotions. Her voice is steel, “I took him to every doctor, every therapist, every hospital. I did everything I could—“

“But love him,” Clarke remarks quietly. “Everything but love him.”

At this, an angry tear finds his way down Abby’s cheek, and Clarke watches it with morbid fascination. She’s seen Abby cry once, at Jake Griffin’s funeral. “I loved your father,” she says with quiet conviction.

Clarke shakes her head, sad. “Not like he loved you. Not like you love Jaha.”

Abby clears her throat, looks away, slaps quickly at another tear, composes herself. She runs her hands down the front of her pencil skirt, and Clarke can see it. Guilt. Sadness. Longing. Things that Abby Griffin has tried to cover for so long with charity brunches and dinners and redecorating. “No one could be everything to another person, Clarke,” she says, now that everything is in order again. Her next words are something like a lesson, directed right at her. _“No one can be all of your hopes and dreams and desires.”_

Even though Clarke thinks she understands that, she leaves the house anyway, takes her mother’s Benz and rides it into the city.

\---

She doesn’t have anyone to call. Bellamy will be venomous, in that way of his, make her face every harsh truth she has buried deep down. Octavia, malicious (she doesn’t even want to see what happens at school tomorrow). Wells will be pitying. Finn will pressure her. So, after clicking on Facebook she calls the last person who wants to see her.

\---

Clarke meets Raven Reyes in a coffee shop. The girl comes rushing in with a mechanic’s gray uniform on, grease on her hands and smudges on her cheek. She still manages beautiful, even now, and Clarke feels insecure in Bellamy’s oversized shirt, underwear that barely passes as shorts (by the look Raven gives her, not that well) and flip-flops. Her hair has been finger-combed to something that looks respectable, and her eyes are red from crying.

“You look like shit,” Raven points out, taking a hurried gulp of her coffee (if one can call what she ordered coffee).

Clarke snorts, and nods.

“Raven Reyes,” the girl says, holding out a hand, and Clarke takes it.

“Clarke. Clarke Griffin,”

“Oh, I know,” Raven says cheerily. “I googled you. Sorry about your dad.”

Clarke frowns. Fuck. She should have googled Raven. “Thanks…” she says warily.

The nod Raven gives her is dismissive, at best. “Yep. So. What’s up? This is about Finn.”

Clarke nods back. “He told me you grew up together.”

And without ado, Raven launches into it. She tells her about an alcoholic mother, about how Finn’s parents took her in, about her first love, about her heart breaking when he moved away to the east coast and she had to stay in California for university. About how she transferred to be near Finn, because of course he’d get into a fancy east coast liberal arts college when he graduated. How his parents told her about the award he was receiving and she wanted to surprise him. How he told her he loved her, but not in the way he loved Clarke.

At this, Clarke notices the bitterness in her eyes, and wants to apologize, but she feels as if it will insult Raven.

“He said you guys were still together. Guess you’re having second thoughts.”

Clarke eyes flicker to the table, her untouched coffee in front of her. She digs deep, and suddenly she’s spilling secrets to her boyfriend’s girlfriend. “I used to feel like I needed him. Like I had nothing else—“

The noise comes from the back of Raven’s throat. It’s incredulous, maybe a little mocking. “Yeah, well. Finn has a thing for damaged girls. Thinks he can fix people. That he can be everything to them.”

Clarke looks up, knot in her chest tight. And then she definitely understands.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter Octavia's anger will make more sense, and there will be realizations for Bellamy. I'm not completely sure, but there are only a couple of chapters left.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bellamy moves on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter because writing makes me feel better. Trigger warnings (!!!) for alcohol abuse, mentions of drug abuse and overdosing, mental illness, and just self-destructive behavior in general. There's some Bellamy/Raven here, but it's a one-time thing, promise.

Bellamy stands there with his hand on his cheek, his teeth gritted together, and watches Clarke Griffin walk out with her boyfriend, and all he thinks is that he is a fucking idiot.

“Fucking idiot,” Octavia voices his thoughts in a spiteful hiss, finally moving past Jasper and standing in front of him. She crosses his arms. Looks angry and pitying. Bellamy rolls his eyes. “Next time you want to be a selfish asshole, don’t do it with my friend—“

Okay. That actually pisses him off. Because he’s here, in this suburb, with his cheek aching, looking after her. Doing his job, the only thing he’s ever fucking known. Because he finally realizes he is so tired. “Selfish?” he asks loudly, with a sardonic laugh. “That’s fucking hilarious, coming from you. I’m here for you, everything I _do_ is for _you._ I’m stuck in the fucking Twilight Zone for you! I play golf with Wells motherfucking Jaha, and go to luncheons, and the one thing I want—“

Okay. He’s said it. He says it out loud. He wants her. Plain and simple.

The next part he says slower, deliberate. “I want one thing and I can’t have it?”

Octavia laughs (just like him) loud and humorless, throws her hands up in the air. “Jesus fucking Christ, Bell! Look at me!” He does, he looks at her new clothes, her black jeans, white tee-shirt, and the leather jacket that probably cost more than their couch back home. She’s gained weight—healthy weight and muscle from cheerleading. She doesn’t look tired or too skinny.

“I’m fine,” Octavia continues, and she says this like he needs to know, really needs to know. Like it’s a revelation, and it is. Bellamy stands, shocked. “My mom is dead, and I’m in a new school, and most of the people here talk about me behind my back, and one time Antoine accidently called me Aurora, “ _he didn’t know that,_ “but I’m fine, Bell! I’m fine,” she pleads with him, holding back her tears with something like anger, “ _You’re_ the one that needs help. _You_ need looking after. _You_ are the one who goes to a fucking brunch and decides to fall in love with the most damaged girl in town. _I’m fine_ , you’re not.”

And this truth is harsh, because usually Bellamy is the one forcing things on people, forcing people to realize things, but Octavia must have up picked it up from him. He stands there, taking in her words, taking in everything. Because Jasper reaches for her shoulder and he takes his hand, leads her quickly up the stairs, and the boy tries to avoid his eyes. Octavia is right. All things considered, his has blended in seamlessly with her new life. She’s on the fucking cheerleading squad, for fuck’s sake. And she has friends and a…whatever the fuck Jasper Jordan is.

And now that he knows Octavia doesn’t need him, all Bell has is a dead drug addict mother and a hole carved in his chest by Clarke Griffin. Fuck.

\---

Later the night he leaves, goes home, back to that dead trap in the city, back to the memories of a life that wasn’t balls and expensive suits and fucking golf. Back to slapping his mother awake when she passed out on the living room floor, to punching dealer boyfriends that thought it was alright to give Aurora drugs in exchange for climbing into his sister’s bed, to countless bills and no money to pay them. For days after he drinks beer after beer, until he leaves the apartment for something stronger.

\---

He nurses a jack and coke at a bar, waves the bartender down for another when he finishes (all too quickly). A girl walks up beside him, and a warm smell fills him. Bellamy looks to his left.

It’s her. The other girlfriend of Finn Collins. Raven something. Bellamy snorts, and this causes her to look over to him, her eyebrow raises sassily. Bellamy sees that her thick hair is pulled back in a ponytail. It’s long, shiny, and luscious.

“Got a problem?” she says, and the bartender slides her a drink. Whiskey, straight. He respects that. It’s not Clarke’s vodka and soda, and Bellamy realizes she didn’t even ask for a drink, and that she can’t be twenty-one. She must be a regular.

Bellamy smiles sharply into his glass. “Just a small world, that’s all,” he waves for another drink.

“Do I know you?” she’s annoyed now, quickly. He likes that, but he hates the ideas swarming in his head.

Bellamy shrugs. “My sister goes to school with your boyfriend.”

Ah. There’s a pause, and Raven hmms. “You’re friends with Finn,” she concludes.

And then Bellamy actually laughs, because the bruise on his cheek is still there, but fading. “Trust me, _Raven._ We’re definitely not friends. He hates my guts, actually.”

For another moment he can feel Raven looking at him, and then at the bruise on his face. She’s amazingly perceptive, because she rolls her eyes, and says, “Fuck’s sake, is there anyone in this world _not_ in love with Clarke Griffin?” And gulps the whiskey in one go, barely wincing.

He doesn’t answer. Instead, the two of them get unreasonably drunk together, and they end up at her apartment, a little studio. He knows it won’t make him feel better (or her feel better). In fact, it will make everything so much worse, Jesus Christ. But, this is what Bellamy does. He self-destructs. He burns things down. He makes it impossible for the girl he wants (craves, loves, _fuck_ ) to forgive him. He lets Raven Reyes shove him down on her thin mattress and climb on top of him, straddle him, ride him, until they both see stars. He fucks up. Again. But dammit if he isn't a little bit pleased to finally know what her hair feels like between his fingers.

\---

The next morning, Bellamy tries to sneak out, but Raven is already up. “Are you still here?” the girl muses, and it’s muffled by the pillow. Bellamy absently thinks that if circumstances were different, they would actually be friends.

\---

He drops by after work to pick up the rest of his things. Clothes, books. He enters the large house.

“Bellamy!” his grandmother greets him as he walks down the stairs, ready to leave and never come back. He‘s almost thankful O isn’t anywhere to be found. “Where have you been? Octavia tells me you went back into the city.”

Bellamy wishes the fucking bitch had the grace not to look for goddamn pleased. He rolls his eyes. He can’t stand the pleasantries. “Look. You got what you wanted. O’s better off here. You soothed your fucking conscience.”

At this, Freya clears her throat. He knows he’s hit the jugular. “Bellamy,” she starts, her voice is a little hard, and Bellamy turns to her in surprise, because it’s actually kind of familiar. “I’m sorry things ended up like this. I really am.”

“Sorry doesn’t mean shit,” Bellamy deadpans, “Sorry can’t fix shit.” He’s not sure what he’s talking about.

Freya reaches for him, thinks better, and pulls back. “When your mother left, she was only eighteen. But, I couldn’t force her to stay. I couldn’t force her to get help for what was going to become an addiction. I couldn’t _save her._ As much as I wanted to.”

Bellamy frowns, looks her up and down. She’s crying. He didn’t know she was capable of that. This is odd to him.

“All I can do,” Freya says, resolute, “Is help you and your sister. And it doesn’t pay for my sins. It doesn’t bring my little girl back. It does not go back in time and call to make sure you two are safe, and fed, and warm. But, at least now I can give Octavia a good life. And help you move on with yours.”

Again (like before) he tells her, but this time quietly, curiously, “I don’t want to move on,”

Freya shrugs a bit, and he is reminded of Octavia, especially now that her dark roots are showing. “Well, my dear, time passes and nothing stays static. So, that hardly matters.”

\---

He shows up at Octavia’s practice, sits on the bleachers as she does dance routines and two girls throw her up in the air. He’s impressed, even more so when some of the girls laugh and shove her playfully. He doesn’t show hesitation when he sits next to Jasper his shorter Asian friend, who both look at him with something like fear or nervousness.

“Hey,” he starts, but it isn’t a greeting. He grabs Jasper by the collar of his school uniform, tugs him close so he can look in the boy’s eyes.

“…yeah?” Jasper’s voice only shakes a little, so Bellamy knows Octavia has been toughening him up.

“You hurt my sister, and I’ll break your legs.”

Jasper’s eyes widen, but not in fear. He’s been around O enough to know that this is Bellamy giving something that resembles a blessing. He nods frantically, a little serious. “Yes—of course. Feel free!”

The kid is strange. At this Bellamy shakes his head and Monty chuckles.

Afterwards, Octavia jogs over to him, face expectant. He doesn’t say sorry, doesn’t apologize for being a little smothering, for having sex with her new best friend even though he knew it was going to end badly. Doesn’t apologize.

“I’m moving back to the city,” he stands, shoves his hands in his pockets.

“Back home?” and there is something in Octavia’s voice. A longing, maybe, mixed with sadness (but longing often is).

“No, um…” he snorts, “Freya bought me an apartment, on the nice side.”

This causes her to raise both of her shaped eyebrows in surprise, to smile.

“You can visit, if you want. If you’re not too busy with school, or cheerleading, or Goggles over there—“

“His name is Jasper—“

“I know his fucking name,” he retorts without heat, and pulls her into a headlock, and just like that, they laugh and Octavia aims punches at his ribs, because everything is okay. Something like okay. They are Bellamy and Octavia, and even though she doesn’t need him like she used to, she might still need him for guy advice and to help her sort through school and homework. Regular “older brother” things, maybe.

\----

There is no surprise to anyone that Bellamy is a bit fucked up. No surprise to anyone, especially Clarke Griffin. And, okay. A part of him (most of him) wants her. Craves her, maybe, but that’s unhealthy and he’s trying to turn over a new fucking leaf, or whatever. That means no curvy blondes that light up his insides and make him want to destroy the world. That’s what it means. But there Clarke is, at Octavia’s game--okay, it’s not her game, it’s a basketball game. But Bellamy doesn’t really give a fuck how many lay-ups Wells Jaha can do, even though he is kind of impressed when the boy shoots a perfect three-pointer and the crowd roars. Bellamy has learned that Wells is good at everything, and it’s kind of fucking annoying.

He’s there for his sister, watches the halftime show with amusement because he never thought Octavia (who get into fights and spits venom) could be a preppy cheerleader. When she meets his eyes from across the court she makes a face. He laughs.

When the game is over (he doesn’t care who won), he waits for Octavia outside. He let Freya and Antoine pay for his apartment, but no one is taking his fucking truck. He leans against it, starts when he sees Clarke’s familiar blonde hair, and then, her blue eyes, wide when they meet his.

Fuck. Fuck fuck.

But she comes to him anyway, leaving Wells Jaha to look after her as if to say, _be careful, don’t fall back in._

Bellamy sets his jaw then, makes up his mind that she won’t (he won’t).

“Hey,” she breathes out. She’s in white shorts and thin, pink sweater. Her eyes are clear but sad. Her hair is tame. There are no dark circles under her eyes. Her nails are unpainted.

All he can say is, “Hey.”

“I wanted to call,” she says, “But, Octavia’s still not talking to me, and I thought—“

“It’s okay.” He looks at her, just looks at her, and has to stop himself from kissing her, from running his fingers through her hair. From remembering how good she feels around him. How the thin skin on the inside of her thighs taste.

Clarke looks sadder, as if it’s not okay, “How are you?”

“Good. Work. Applied to some schools—“

A smile lifts her face, and Bellamy smiles with her, can’t help it.

“—mostly in the city. O can’t get rid of me just yet. How’ve you been?”

Clarke takes a deep breath. “Good. Sober…well, mostly.” she answers, and he chuckles, rolls his eyes, “School. Therapy.”

Therapy? His eyes narrow a bit, and he must look concerned, because Clarke assures him, “It was my mom’s idea, at least at first. I just think I need to work out everything. Talk to someone that doesn’t know me about…everything.” _About my dad. About you,_ is what he hears, but that’s alright with him. “I miss you,” she confesses, suddenly, quietly. She talks a step near him and fuck, she looks good, so good. Bellamy has never wanted anything more than a safe sister and a mother that gave a fuck, so wanting Clarke isn’t a good thing, because he can’t stop it, can’t control it.

“Clarke…” he starts, looking down.

“I didn’t use you, no matter what Octavia thinks. Okay, maybe a little, maybe unintentionally, I’m _sorry_ , but that’s over. Finn and I, we’ve been over. Bellamy I lo—“

There are a million things he wants to say. He wants to tell her that it doesn’t matter how they started. It doesn’t matter how damaged they both are. But, that would be a fucking lie. All he’ll do is put chaos back in her and all she’ll do is make him weak. So, instead, he says—

“I slept with Raven.”

It's out of his mouth before he has time to think about it, before he has time catch it. The light in her eyes fades. Her mouth drops, at the same time his heart does.

“ _What?”_ she grits out, her expression stony, hurt, her eyes flickering.

“About two weeks ago. I fucked Raven,” he reiterates, nonchalantly, clearing his throat, “Do you want a play by play, or…?“

Clarke looks away, past him, and then when she meets his eyes they are full of hatred. _Good,_ he thinks. Because he’s got a nice apartment that doesn’t contain a ghost in the bathroom. And because the applications he put in were returned with acceptance letters. Because she’s in therapy. And she’s stopped drinking (mostly). And maybe that easel he saw in her bedroom that one time is being put to use. Maybe she can start dating Wells Jaha and go on double dates with her mom and his dad. Maybe he’ll find Raven Reyes’s number and he’ll ask her out. Maybe. Maybe.

Clarke bits her lip, hard. It draws his eyes to it, and she must have seen the heat in his eyes because she lets out a mocking laugh. She knows. Knows why he just told her what he did, knows why he’s ruining things. That it might be for the best but it’s also because he’s a fucking coward. “Fuck you, Bellamy,” she croaks out, her voice thick with unshed tears.

“Fuck you, too,” he says back absently, as she stomps back to Wells, who puts an arm around her and looks at him incredulously.

“Hey, big brother,” O greets cheerily, but her smile drops when she sees her face. She follows his gaze to Clarke, and she rolls her eyes. “Seriously?”

“It’s over,” Bellamy tells her sternly, but O surprises him with a pitying look.

She doesn’t go with him, but she gives him a hug before jumping in the car with some girls from her squad. He drives home and heats up the dinner he made at the beginning of the week. He turns on the television, avoids the beer in his fridge. He riffles through college acceptance letters. And for once, in his whole fucking life, he _tries_. Tries not to fucking hate everything.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for reading/commenting on this mess of a story. It's almost over, I swear. Please comment! It gives me life, as I've said, and motivates me to write more. Also planning another story because I really can't get away from all the werewolf fics going around, and it is literally my favorite AU.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke Griffin goes to the prom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, writing fanfiction instead of doing homework because I hate myself. Trigger warning (!!!) for alcohol, but it's not that serious. Also, this chapter is terribly cliche, but it's prom, how can it not be?

Raven looks guilty, she really does, and Clarke shakes her head, gets up to leave the girl’s studio apartment. She can’t help but think—did they have sex on her bed, the one she sits on and sometimes spends the night in? Did they kiss all the way there, fumble with clothing (but Bellamy never does, he used to undo the clasp of her bra faster than she did)? Did his hands burn a trail over her body, did his mouth? It makes her sick to think of it.

“Clarke, wait, c’mon…“ Raven stands up to, grabs her by the wrist, and Clarke does wait.

“Its fine—“

“If I knew you actually had _feelings_ for the guy, I wouldn't 've done it! And how was I supposed to know you were actually going to be cool, and we were going to be friends—“

Clarke bits her lip, tries to will Bellamy from her mind. It’ll take some time, but she’ll get there. She’ll get over it. “Its fine,” she shakes her head.

But Raven looks wounded, looks disappointed in herself, and does that thing that’s almost a pout with her eyebrows drawn together. “No. It’s not. I fucked up—“

“ _He_ fucked up,” Clarke says with resolve, and the look in her eyes makes Raven straighten a little. “He knew what he was doing. He knew I couldn’t forgive him. He did it…” She lets out an exasperated cry, flops down on Raven’s bed.

Raven lays next to her, shoulder to shoulder. They have grown close, resolved issues with Finn, who even now remains in Raven’s life as a constant--and as such, Clarke’s. And, that doesn’t really bother her, not at all. She loves Finn. Loves the comfort in his smile and the way he and Raven laugh together. But, she doesn’t love him like she loves Bellamy. Not even close.

“You’re saying he did it on purpose?” Raven muses, and then snorts, “Now, I just feel used. What a dick.” But, of course, Clarke knows Raven was using him too. That she needed to get Finn (and Clarke) out of her system. Maybe it worked (maybe it didn’t).

Clarke laughs. “He _is_ a dick,” she confirms.

There is a moment of silence, and Raven starts, hesitantly, “Look, its cool if…maybe next fall doesn’t happen. If you wanna room with someone else. I mean, I’d get it.”

The blonde turns to her friend and searches her face, eyebrows raised in question. Upon seeing something she doesn't usually see on Raven’s face (uncertainty), Clarke laces their fingers together and smiles.

“California, here we come.”

\---

Graduation can’t come any sooner, and Clarke is on pins and needles trying to catch up on the school she's missed. She tries to get her life together, tries to figure things out. Clarke draws again (CALARTS has already accepted her based on older work, much to her mother’s disappointment) and turns in her assignments with charcoal smudges on the edges. Teacher accept them, in any case. She passes by the skin of her teeth.

The idea that they all go to prom together is Raven’s. Finn and Clarke look at each other nervously.

“Oh, c’mon!” she says one night, as they sit on the floor of Finn’s bedroom, eating takeout Thai food and talking about the relief of not having any more finals.

She waggles her eyebrows lasciviously. “Don’t you want confirm rumors about our dirty threesomes?”

At this, Finn bursts into laughter, munching on tofu pad thai,  but Clarke just frowns. It’s not just her mother (and Finn’s parents) who assumes that they are all sleeping together, it’s the whole community, especially when Finn walks into parties with both girls by his side. It is an interesting turn of events, and must be great gossip material for the school. _Clarke Griffin finds out about Finn Collins’ other girlfriend and now they have threesomes._ Clarke knows people either think she’s a sexual deviant or weak-willed.

Clarke sighs, “I don’t know, _prom?”_ It was the cliché of all clichés. It was the ending to a teen movie, where everything gets solved and the prom queen breaks the crown (or kills everyone). Finn protests, too. He’s not that type of guy (unlike Wells) and Clarke knows that if they were still together they would have skipped it and spent the night getting drunk in his room.

“We’ll get wasted beforehand and make fun of the prom queen!”

At this, Finn perks up a bit, and but stands his ground.

“It’s ridiculously cliché,” Finn starts, and Raven rolls her eyes because she can feel another pretentious speech coming on. “We don’t need _prom_ or anything else to make the end of an era. Shit, I wasn’t even going to go to graduation—“

“You are so going to graduation,” Raven argues.

They banter so much it’s ridiculous, but it’s never with heat (kind of like Octavia and Bellamy). Clarke stops them. “We’re going. Mall. Tomorrow. We’ll buy the dumbest dresses and Finn’ll wear his tux and we’ll get drunk and make fun of the prom queen.”

Her word is law, and Finn groans while Raven snickers in victory.

\---

Prom is a bit unlike the galas Clarke has had all her life. The preppy pageant girls on the Student Council lost their bid for the country club, so instead Clarke’s class has their last night together in the city, on the top floor of a high building. She gets ready in Raven’s apartment. They do not get the ugliest dresses they can find, but standing side by side they look completely different. Raven dons a slinky dress that Clarke is sure she is too curvy to pull off—it’s black, long, and shiny, with a plunging neckline that fits her small breasts perfectly, and a slit up the middle that Finn keeps eyeing. Her hair is pulled back into a low ponytail, she has on her signature red lipstick and a dazzling smile.

On the other hand, Raven has to pull Clarke away from the pink frilly dresses, and puts her in something a little out of her comfort zone. The dress is short (at the top of her thighs) and figure-hugging, and Clarke blushes because when Finn sees her his eyes are tied to her hips. It’s so tightly packed with white sequined the whole dress actually gleams pink, there are spaghetti straps and a high neck that reveals her shoulders. When her hair comes into question Raven runs a hand through Clarke’s natural waves so that they are artfully tousled.

Clarke thinks absently about Finn’s choice in girls—because she and Raven as so different—the girl is the dark to her light. But in some ways, they are the same. Both had been desperate to be loved and filled with something other than your utter anger and misery. He waits for them downstairs in front of a limo, and Clarke and Raven actually laugh when he throws his arms out in a _voila_ , because it’s _white._

Finn mocks hurt and surprise, clad in his expensive tuxedo (of course, the bowtie is undone, hanging dashingly around his neck). He looks handsome with his hair combed (for once).

In the limo the driver ostentatiously rolls up the partition. They pop champagne in the back, and Clarke forgets her promise to her mother and doctor to be sober, and both Raven and Finn cheer when Clarke starts to chug grey goose straight from the glass bottle (of course Finn would bring vodka, it’s her weakness). The three of them stand up and out of the sunroof, and yelling at the tops of their lungs in the night air. 

The dance floor has high ceilings and chandeliers, and is bathed in blue light. It’s terribly modern—like an upscale night club. When they arrive, everyone stares. Even when Wells greats her with a hug, he gives her an odd look. It must look weird (of course it is) for Finn to come in with both girls on each arm. Clarke looks into the crowd, and sees the familiar eyes of Octavia Blake. The girl is by Jasper's side, her dress looks like it costs more than Raven’s apartment—it’s all feathers and lace and corseting. With her old Hollywood waves and studded shoes, she looks like a dark queen amongst the pink frills and rhinestones that make up the rest of the cheerleaders. Octavia gives her a disinterested look before turning back to her friends.

Clarke bites her lip, tries not the think about the other girl, because for all her whip-smarts and her attitude, Raven will never have Octavia’s wild fire. Clarke misses her.

Raven thinks dancing is in order, so they do. Finn takes turns flinging them around and in between Finn’s carefree smile, Raven whipping her hair about, she actually feels happier than she has in months. Genuinely happy. For a moment she doesn’t think about a dead dad, miss the heat of Bellamy’s body, or the way Octavia’s eyes light up when she smiles. She doesn’t think about any of these things. Instead, she dances sandwiched in between her two friends and doesn’t give a fuck if people stare.

Later, she watches Prom Queen and King get crowned, and Raven makes a face at Clarke at all the pomp and circumstance. She expects it to be Wells and the head cheerleader he arrived with, but when Octavia Blake and Jasper Jordan are crowned, a confused murmur and light clapping runs through the crowd. For one, Jasper is severely unpopular. He is, perhaps, known as the goofy class clown, the guy you could always get good pot from. And Octavia is a junior—she shouldn’t even be on the ballot. They run up with their hands clasped, grinning, Jasper twirling her when the head of the Student Council puts a sparkling tiara on her head. Monty whoops obnoxiously and Clarke realizes what has happened. The voting was done online, and it must have been easy for Monty to screw with it and make sure his friends won.

They have their dance in the middle of the floor, and from where Clarke is standing she can see the spotlight on them, and she’s sort of surprised at the look on their faces.

Utter and complete love. While Jasper can’t keep the grin off his face, Octavia has her head on his shoulder, and a look of happiness and bliss adorns her face, makes the hard lines there look soft. It makes Clarke’s stomach tighten. She dismisses herself from Raven and Finn, and when she reaches the door to the restroom, looks back to them, she sees something that makes her feel even worse—the two of them swaying slowly to the song, foreheads pressed together. Finn says something sweet (when does her not?) and Raven laughs, her eyes are closed and content.

Clarke has no idea what this means (or she tries to ignore it). 

\---

She’s not sure how long she spends in the bathroom, looking at Bellamy’s contact info on her phone, strolling through Octavia's past text messages. She’s not sure when, but someone comes stumbling into the stall next to her, and she can hear crying.

Why she gets up, Clarke doesn’t know, but she does, she opens the stall and there sits Octavia Blake, looking like a teen tragedy, crown crooked on her head, mascara running down her face. When she looks up and sees Clarke, she rolls her eyes, buries her face in her hands.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Clarke hasn’t heard her voice in months, was used to the silence that came with her harsh stares. “It _would_ be you,” she finishes, and pushes past her to the sink. She starts to clean up her mascara and reapply makeup stored in her clutch.

“Are you okay?” Clarke asks, concerned, nervous.

“Fuck off,” Octavia throws over her shoulder at the girl, breath shaky as she reapply her eyeliner, cursing when she messes up.

Clarke bite her lip, tries again, softer, this time. “O. You just won Prom Queen. And you weren’t even on the ballot. Why aren’t you happy right now?”

After a moment, Octavia staring at herself in the mirror, the younger girl simply says, “Em Eye Tee.”

“What?”

And she turns around, tears welling up in her eyes. She tries to hold them back, tries to stop it, but tears escape down her cheek anyway. “Jasper got into MIT. Him and Monty are leaving next month.”

Clarke opens her mouth to say, _that’s great,_ but the tortured look on Octavia’s face stops her, and then she understands.

“He’s leaving!” Octavia’s voice has risen, she’s almost hysterical, and Clarke takes a step toward her. “He’s leaving, he’s going to another state, and he’s going to find some brainy girl, that’s _‘nerdy-hot’_ and when he comes back for break he’s going to be different. _I’m_ going to be different—“

She can’t help it. Clarke embraces her once friend, and Octavia clings to her hard, sobs into her shoulder. She whispers almost nothing into her ear, trying to sooth her, strokes her hair softly.

“What if he doesn’t love me, anymore?” Octavia whispers desperately. _“What if I don’t love him?”_

Clarke tells her the harsh truth. That everything changes. That people die, and fall out of love. That fathers hang themselves in their studies, and that mothers overdose on drugs in their bathrooms. That things happen. that life doesn't stop.

And, Clarke grips her tight. “But, he would never be that stupid,” is how she finishes, to soften the blow.

This might be the best thing to say, because Octavia pulls back, and asks, “Really?”

Clarke nods, maybe a little sad, she can’t help it. “He looks at you like all he wants, all he _needs_ is you,” she shrugs, sighs. “I’ve never seen anyone look at another person like that.”

Something in Octavia's eyes is concerned, “I have,” and Clarke wants to leave right there. Because she knows, she knows, and it makes her want to cry with her (ex) friend.

The alcohol is still invading her system. She feels worse than she has in days. Instead of addressing her words, she simply says, “I’m sorry,” almost matter-of-factly, almost rambling. But she confesses and means ever word. “I’m sorry about Bellamy. I’m sorry I used your brother to make myself feel better because my dad is dead and Finn lied to me. I’m sorry I had sex with him, and I’m sorry I fell in love with him.” And that’s it. That’s the whole truth. Because if anything, Clarke knows completely how the Blakes appreciate honesty. How they thrive on it.

Octavia searches her face, impassive, but still teary. “It was shitty of you.”

“It was. And I understand if you never forgive me. He’s your brother, and I’m just some girl—“

Suddenly, Octavia pulls her in, wraps her arms around Clarke tight. “You’re not just some girl,” she says fiercely, in a way that says there is no room for discussion. “You’re my best friend.”

And then, it’s Clarke who is clinging to Octavia and crying.

\---

In the end, Clarke hugs her mother goodbye (and Raven clutches Finn tight, because he does get into Columbia University’s Creative Writing program, just like Raven said). She and Finn don’t go to graduation, either. Prom is enough for them. She leaves on a plane, goes far away from everything and everyone she knows. And though there is a dark and desperate part of her that wants to stay, wants sink deeper and deeper into the pit that her father started digging with his death (that she kept digging with Finn, with drugs, with alcohol, with Bellamy), she knows it’s time go. So she goes.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear it's almost over. The next chapter is the second to last one (besides an epilogue) and it takes place over Christmas Break, where Bellamy will again fuck shit up.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Octavia Blake turns seventeen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright. So, I know I said this would be the second to last chapter, but what I had written didn't fit so well yet, so I'm putting this chapter (and another) in between that so that it makes more sense. So, one more chapter after this one and Bellamy reaches level 1000 asshole potential. Trigger Warnings (!!) for underage drinking, somewhat explicit sex, and cheating/infidelity.

College might just have been a good fucking idea, Bellamy thinks absently, as a fit, sexy brunette blows him in the restroom of a raging party. The back of his head connects solidly against the wall behind him. But he’s so fucked up (and the brunette is so talented) that he doesn’t even notice. Yeah. A good fucking idea. Because in between classes and parties and meaningless sex, life is okay. Life is fine. Life is copious amounts of coffee, late nights studying, learning about something he actually fucking enjoys (nevermind that a major in Ancient Literature will get him nowhere but back in a classroom).

He has moved on.

So, why is he dreading next week? Oh _yeah_ —

Because Clarke Griffin will be back from sunny California for his sister's birthday, and he still can’t stop thinking about how much better it all would feel if she were the one on her knees in front of him.

As the party is winding down he sits in the hallway, and blames the alcohol when he calls her.

“Hello?” Her voice is sleepy, wary, confused.

He opens his mouth to speak, but he can’t say anything. Doesn’t know what to say. The silence is too long, because Clarke tells him, “I swear to God, Bellamy, if you called me at four AM just to hang up in my face, I’m driving back to the east coast to kill you.”

He laughs, a bit drunkenly, but genuinely. “I actually _was_ going to hang up in your face.”

A breath floats to the phone and it sounds like a laugh, “Fuck you.”

He replies, “Fuck you, too,” and is reminded of their last conversation.

“What do you want?” she says, quietly.

What does he want. Fuck, he wants too much, and wishes he wanted nothing at all. “Are you coming back for O’s birthday?” he asks suddenly, closing his eyes at the sound of her voice, because nothing has fucking changed. He’ll fuck some tight brunette in his bed and watch her leave the next morning and he still feels Clarke Griffin everywhere because he’s pathetic. Even after about five months, he’s still pathetic.

There is a pause. “Yeah, I am.”

He’s knows that pause. “Who are you with?” he asks, accusingly. He’ll occasionally go to a charity event back in the suburbs and here whispers of her name, coupled along with someone else’s and a mother’s disapproval. He’s angry, a little. Because if the rumors Octavia tries to keep from him are truth, he swears to fucking God—

“Bellamy,” Clarke pleads, tired, sad, because they _are_ true. She’s dating some girl, some Political Science or Pre-Law major, some left-brain type. “Don’t do this. It’s four AM, and I haven’t heard from you in half a year, and I have an eight o’clock class. _Don’t do this_.”

Bellamy nods, “Fine.” And he hangs up.

\---

Perhaps he should have just let it go. But, he couldn’t. When Octavia’ birthday comes, everyone (and he means everyone) comes back east to celebrate with her. He and Octavia watch the clock tick 11:59 am, and she slumps in his couch because it’s only the two of them. Before that was fine, but now that she has friends she can’t be with, Bellamy knows it sucks. Which is why he told Jasper and Monty to tell her they couldn’t make it, so when the doorbell rang at twelve, and it was her birthday, she almost has a heart attack.

O gets up and answers the door, and Jasper doesn’t even say get out, “Surprise!” before she shrieks practically tackles him, laughing and crying, grabbing every part of the lanky boy she can get her hands on.

Bellamy rolls his eyes, hiding a smile behind the neck of his beer.

That night the rest of the party comes, and he’s never seen Octavia happier. They dance the night away in the city, Bellamy knows the bouncer, so even though Octavia has just turned seventeen they let her in, and he trusts Jasper to keep an eye on her so she doesn’t get alcohol poisoning. By two am, Octavia, Jasper, and Monty are so drunk he actually hears Clarke Griffin arrive before he sees it. His chest feels instantly cavernous. Bellamy downs his whiskey quick, and turns around.

Fuck. She is amazing. Her hair is in waves and though her casual red dress is short and hugging around her thighs.

Fuck (of a different kind). Raven Reyes is behind her, and when the Latina girl meets his eyes, they are full with a kind of hatred.  The rest of their party is Finn Collins (that little shit) and Wells Jaha (also a little shit), who apparently is coming back from Duke University. Raven nudges Clarke, and gestures to him with a nod of her head. Bellamy braces himself for the worst, but when Clarke sees him, her expression is unreadable.

It is only when she starts to walk toward him, almost not of her own accord (and Raven fails to hold her back), that he knows this is either going to be the worst or best night of his life.

She barely reaches him before Bellamy orders for her, “Vodka,” he tells the bartender, and with one slow, deliberate look down and up her body, “Straight.”

And hint of a smile is on her lips when she throws it back, and hair falling off her shoulders. He wants to bite her exposed neck. This is the worst idea in the world.

\---

He takes shot after shot with his seventeen year-old sister and her boyfriend. Alright, fuck it, he’s a horrible influence, but it’s her birthday. She and Jasper cheer after almost every one, and sooner or later the whole bar is cheering with them. He hasn’t seen Clarke in a while, lost her in the moment and the crowd, but when he looks to the dance floor, she, Raven, and Finn are dancing together, Raven in the middle as they move to the beat. Bellamy is at least sober enough to raise an eyebrow.

“Goddammit, Bellamy!”

And he looks over to his sister, attached to Jasper’s side.

Octavia shrugs, nonplussed. “Don’t be a pussy.”

And that’s all the motivation he needs to cut in and steal Clarke away from that weird threesome (couldn’t be true, could it?) and dance with her. Their eyes connect, glow eerily under the black light, and he can see it in hers (she can probably see it in his). That hesitation, almost like a fear, because both of them know this is not alright, but it’s too powerful for them to stop. And fuck, he doesn’t want to.

Then, there is, shit, a moment where he can feel her completely giving up control (he lost his as soon as she walked in and he hear her name). Because one of her hands is up and curled in his hair, her ass pressed against his front, her neck (God, her neck) is salty and sweet. This is the worst idea in the _world._ She has someone, he knows that, back in California. She used to him to get back at her ex. He slept with her ex’s other girlfriend. And tomorrow she will go back to school and he’ll feel even worse. And maybe if she didn’t feel so fucking good pressed against him he would try and stop it.

She does though, freezes abruptly and he follows her gaze to Wells Jaha, who has managed to look both judgmental and concerned at the same damn time. She follows him outside, and Bellamy actually rolls his eyes, because what a fucking _cock-block_.

A few minutes later, after another shot and not being able to get her out of his head, Bellamy walks out after them, pausing in the doorway to listen to a conversation.

“—and what about _Lexa_?”

Wells lecturing. _Shocker._

“I don’t know…” Clarke says, unsure, vulnerable.

“You’re just going to give up everything you’ve done over the last couple of months. All the progress, _Lexa,_ to fall back into self-destructive behavior?”

The kid sounds like a therapist, and Bellamy absently wants to know his major. Apparently Clarke thinks so, as well.

“You’re not my doctor, Wells,” she says, sternly.

“But, I’m your _friend_. Do you want me to get Raven? She’ll tell you that you’re being an idiot.”

Clarke laughs, and Bellamy sneaks a glance at her, sees that she’s smiling, maybe with a little self-deprecation. “You guys…you don’t get it.”

“You’re right. I don’t. This is the worst idea—“ Bellamy snorts a little because he’s been saying that in his head all night.

“I know!” she says, exasperated. “I know. You just…you don’t understand what it feels like. Spending all this time trying to forget someone and they ruin it by just _looking at you._ Being in the same room as you. And everything comes rushing back, everything. That barrier you put up to keep it all out just… _breaks_. And it was made out of _paper_.”

There is a silence, and Bellamy breaks it by stepping out of the shadows. Clarke sees him instantly, her eyes wide and dark. Wells turns around and glares at him, but pushes past him to go inside. He walks toward her.

“Did you hear that?” she asks quietly.

Bellamy cocks his head, eyes never leaving hers as he walks forward, into her space. “Maybe. But, I didn’t have to hear it.” Because he already understands perfectly.

Clarke frowns. “Wells is right, though.”

He scoffs, rolling his eyes. “When is he not?” he says, annoyed. The young man had a habit of hitting the nail on the fucking head.

He’s too drunk to drive, so they take the town car she and her friends took to the bar back to his apartment. When he reaches out and touches her thigh, she sighs, and that ends it. He grabs the back of her head and crushes his mouth to his. They both groan, the anticipation exploding.  Clarke’s hands find their way over his shirt, roaming over his abs and raking their nails down his chest. The partition starts rolling up when her dress is hiked up and he’s pushing her panties to the side so he can crook two fingers inside of her, feel harsh pants against his mouth. After she comes it only takes a few seconds for her to push him back against the seat and undo his belt, take him in her warm mouth. He almost laughs out loud.

They take the elevator up, kissing deeply as his floor comes into sight, the penthouse at the top (because his grandparents are pretentious assholes). He pushes her against the door (like almost a year ago at Finn’s party) and lets his hands roam over her. And then she bites his lip, and he groans, picks her up and carries her to the bed, buries his head in-between her thighs.

 _“I fucking missed you,”_ he has her on all fours now, is bent over her trembling body, whispering in her ear.

And she has the nerve to ask, breathlessly, eyes challenging him over her shoulder, “How much?”

So he says, “This much,” and in one motion fills her hard and deep. The cry she lets out shakes him to his core, spurs him forward.

Clarke’s chanting his name, so he digs deep and doesn’t hold back, “That’s right, Princess. And when you go back to whoever _the fuck_ you’re going back to, I want you to remember that _I’m_ the only one that can make you feel this good.” And when he sits up on his knees so he can drive into her wet heat savagely, pulling her back by her hips to meet each thrust. She’s so tight and perfect around him he loses it a little, tangles a firm hand in her blonde hair and tugs a bit, is pleased when her sounds get utterly filthy.

Again, she’s saying his name, frantically, desperately, all he can hear is, _“Ohfuck, ohGod, pleaseBellamyplease,”_ and he knows whoever that girl in California is, she can’t make her beg like this, and it gives him satisfaction.

 _I want you to know that you’re mine._ It’s a dangerous thought. But, he’s certainly hers. Bellamy can’t think straight. And shit, maybe he actually said it out loud, because as soon as the not-thought finishes she’s there. She’s loud when she comes (she always is, but fuck she's coming so hard she's practically sobbing) and when her pussy clenches around him he’s done, it’s over. He’s swearing and groaning and yes, _God._

They curl into each other, he’s so spent he actually lets himself enjoy it, takes time to stroke her hair from her damp forehead, press his lips to it, circle her in his arms.  

\---

“We made a mistake,” Clarke says, furiously, as she rushes around his penthouse, looking for her bra. He’s seen her naked many times, but still, his eyes linger on the fullness of her breasts, her rosy nipples.

“Let’s make it again,” Bellamy answers lazily, walking behind her in nothing but low-hanging sweat pants. His mouth attaches to her neck and both of his hands reach up to touch her breasts—

 _“Bellamy.”_ Clarke is serious as she tugs on her bra, turning to face him.

_“Clarke.”_

“We made things worse.”

He’s knows that’s true. Now he’s never going to get her out of his system. But, he can’t stand that she regrets it. “Says who?” he asks, defensively.

“I have a girlfriend. We’re happy.” And continues to look around for her clothing. Bellamy laughs.

“I can tell,” he says mockingly, throwing himself on the couch and watching her run around and get dressed. “So happy you come home and fuck me. You must really love her.”

The thing about Bellamy, is that he knows when he’s being an asshole. He really does. So he isn’t surprised when Clarke faces him, fully clothed now, jaw set in anger and guilt. He does it on purpose, sometimes. He’s aware he pushes her to her limits, and a sick part of him (let’s be honest, most of him) loves doing that.

“Raven,” is all she says, through gritted teeth, and Bellamy narrows his eyes.

 _“Finn,”_ he retaliates, “Two against one. You win.”

She makes a frustrated noise and grabs her clutch. He doesn’t want her to go like this. Doesn’t want her to go. He stands up, catching her at the door, and spins her around, kisses her like a goodbye or a hello, and wants more.

Clarke reaches up and tangles her fingers in his hair, too late, because he pulls back quickly, rests his forehead against hers. “I’ll see you for Christmas,” he says in between shallow breaths. He can see her eyes are closed. “You should bring her if you don’t want this to happen again.”

She looks up at him, lips brushing against his hesitantly, eyes hurt and incredulous, because she knows exactly what he’s doing. Daring her, again. Being an asshole, again. But she leaves, opening the door with one hand reached behind her and disappearing in a flurry of blonde hair. He hopes she doesn't bring her.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the support. I hope you all enjoyed. Next chapter Lexa will actually be introduced and not just mentioned.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finn Collins takes too many uppers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Introducing Lexa. Trigger Warnings (!!) for recreational drug use, alcohol abuse.

It had been a very good year, so far. California is everything Clarke thought it would be. Perfect weather, perfect waves. The sun shines overhead as they chase the water. Clarke gets light-haired under the beams and Raven’s skin turns even more tan and even. They set up in a small beach house, are greeted by waves in the morning when they have their breakfast on the deck. Life is impossibly good that summer. Without the weight of everything back east, Clarke feels good. So good.

She allows the past to rest there, but Bellamy Blake still slips into her mind. Sometimes when she’s out with Raven, and the girl ditches her to argue with some tall blonde (his name is Kyle, or Wick, or something, but he’s so into Raven and the girl is oblivious), she finds herself on top of the sink in a dingy bathroom, mouth connected to a beautiful stranger, and when his hands run up her thighs she can remember vividly, so vividly, the bruises Bellamy left there. And then she kisses harder, trying to forget.

\---

Clarke goes to CALARTS, but Raven’s friends are from UCLA, where she spent most of the last school year. They live in-between the two cities, and they drive 45 minutes to Los Angeles to go to a party. That’s where she meets Lexa. She is a friend of a friend, of a friend. She is frighteningly gorgeous, has full lips and eyes that can cut through flesh and bone. Those eyes are curious when they look at her, intense in a way Clarke has only seen once before. They are introduced in passing, but nothing more. At the end of the night, Lexa drives her back to her apartment and they have sex. It is a new experience for Clarke, all lips and soft curves. She can’t say she’s never thought of any of her girlfriends as beautiful, sexy. Octavia with her fierce face, toned arms. Raven’s luscious hair and beautiful smile. But Lexa is something different. Smoldering. Almost (almost) consuming.

In the morning, Clarke wakes up and Lexa is already awake, working away at her phone.  

“I’m not interesting in pursuing relationships,” she comments, easily.

But instead of being offended, Clarke sort of smiles and sighs, like a laugh. “I don’t think you want to be with me, anyway,” and gets out of bed, starts pulling on her clothing,

Lexa narrows her eyes. She does not look away from her phone, but Clarke can tell she is intrigued. “Why is that?”

Clarke wants to say, _because I’m in love with someone else._ But she convinces herself that it’s waning, that she’s getting over him, so instead she says, “Because I’m a little messed up,” and that’s true, so it’s okay, right?

Lexa looks more and more intrigued as she watches Clarke leave.

She takes a cab back to Wick’s, knocks on the door and is not surprised to see Raven answer it. Flipping her hair over her shoulder, Raven outright denies sleeping with Wick, but Clarke still teases her about it on the way home.

“Out of all the girls to have a lesbian experience with, _Lexa?_ ” Raven snorts as purchase drive-thru Starbucks, sunnies firmly on her face.

“Jealous?” Clarke teases more, sipping at her iced latte. There is no such thing as hot coffee, here. Back east it is all warm mochas and scalding blonde roast. Here she sucks on iced coffee and fraps.

Raven laughs out loud, “Yeah, I mean we pretty much indirectly had sex because of Finn. Waiting for you to seal the deal!”

She’s glad she’s here with Raven.

\---

And Raven actually accepts that they end up dating. Like, actually dating. Lexa gets her number from the friend of the friend and admits that she can’t stop thinking about her. Clarke pours herself into it. She really does. Lexa…she’s good. She’s strong, similar to Clarke but so different (a Pre-Law student, a future politician, a tiny bit more analytical than she is). Clarke grows to care for her, to adore the way the sun lights up her green eyes or the smile she keeps reserved just for her. She tells Wells and Finn and Octavia and within a couple of days her mother is calling her with the typical, “Is there something you need to tell me?”

Clarke is good, though. She goes to her therapist (a new one her mother recommended close to her school). She avoids getting (too) drunk. She cares for her girlfriend.

But then it’s ruined by a phone call at four AM. When he hangs up on her, she can hear her heart beat hard in her chest, and she doesn’t realize she’s frozen until Lexa walks out of the bedroom and asks her what is wrong.

She can feel a tightening when she shakes her head, nothing. But, she knew it before she even stepped on the plane. She counts down the days.

\---

Being with him again is intense. Because on one hand, he fucked Raven and rejected her. On the other hand, he looks so good, and feels even better against her, fucking her, kissing her, touching her everywhere. It’s like coming home, breathing again after being strangled. And when he says it, maybe doesn’t know that she hears it, “ _I want you to know that you’re mine.”_ she already knows. Clarke touches inch of him while his sleeps below her, his arms winded around her. Clarke listens to his heartbeat under her ear, breathes deep so hers can slow down and sync up with his. It does.

In the morning, the guilt sinks in. Again, she’s hurt someone she cares about because she can’t keep her hands off her best friend’s brother. She takes the town car back to her house out of town, climbs the stairs and sees Finn and Raven on top of her covers. Finn is on his back, hair falling handsomely in his face. Raven sleeps on his chest, her leg thrown over his. They are still in the same clothing from last night, shoes kicked off near the door. Clarke sighs, sets her heels down, and climbs onto the bed, tucks herself into Finn’s other side. He responds by moving his arm so it circles her shoulders.

“You’re awake,” Clarke points out.

“Yes! I took too many uppers. I’m meditating,” he responses (a bit too) quickly with a smile, eyes still closed. “What happened with Bellamy?”

It’s odd. Finn doesn’t hate Bellamy. He can’t hate anyone, that’s just Finn. In fact, the day he punched him was so out of character for the boy he had admitted later to Clarke that he regretted it. This wasn’t said to Bellamy’s face, of course, but after a heartfelt apology to Octavia, the two of them are okay, which meant Jasper and Monty could resume their love for the long-haired boy (but now they would always be more O’s friends than his).

That being said, _her_ relationship with Finn was a complex one. Finn and Raven fell so easily back together, took the other back after everything, and Clarke is very certain that Raven is still a little in love with him, and he with her. Even now, with their arms around each other—it seems as if they belong together.  Sometimes she just feels as if she’s in the way, a test for Finn because he wasn’t sure he wanted to be with one girl for the rest of his life. Maybe he got lonely because the girl in his heart was across the county. Maybe he got confused.

“I love you, Clarke,” Finn mutters with feeling, when she doesn’t answer. And she looks up at his face, brushes his dark hair from his closed eyes.

“I love you, too.”

“I want you to be happy.”

“I want to be happy, too.”

This time, he opens his eyes, stares at her. Clarke can see his pupils are still blown from whatever he took the night before. He looks adorable, but Clarke frowns, because it’s still worrying. “Even if it’s the guy you left me for.” He doesn’t look hurt, anymore. Just earnest.

Maybe it’s the “lesser of two evils” thing. Because from what she’s told Finn about Lexa he doesn’t approve (in fact, the only one of her friends that likes the idea of them together is Wells). He thinks she’s unfeeling, cold, and she is, at least most of the time. But, maybe Clarke likes that. It’s a relief from the emotional hurricane that is Bellamy Blake.

Clarke molds herself closer to him, lays her hand on Raven’s, who sleeps like the dead. “We had sex.”

Finn lets out a queer little chuckle, amused, turns his head back to the ceiling and closes his eyes, breathing quickly. “Duh.”

“Being around him scares me,” she admits. “He scares me and I scare myself.”

He hugs her tighter, and Clarke really wishes she was in love with Finn and Raven and they had threesomes, because believe it or not, like would be way easier. “Would you rather be bored? Be with someone that doesn’t excite you, doesn’t make you question things?” There it is, Clarke can feel one of Finn’s speeches coming on. Except this one is rushed and intense and strangled.

“I would rather be safe,” Clarke reply, voice muffled by his shoulder.

“Fuck safety,” says Finn passionately, “My heart is about to explode—“

Clarke looks up, alarmed. “—are you okay--”

“--I’ve been up for more than twenty-four hours and I took strange drugs from a guy in a tracksuit—“

“—Finn, how much did you take? What did you take—“

“I’m in love with a girl whose heart I broke and I changed my major from English to Philosophy—“

“—wait, _what_? Wait, you dropped out of the English program?—“

“—But I’m alive. I feel too much, and I make so many mistakes, and I break rules I set out for myself because that’s _what people do_ , Clarke.” He turns to her, pupils large and intense. She’s used to Finn’s pretentious speeches, but she’s only seen him speak impassioned by drugs a few times. “Safe is boring. Safe is bullshit! It doesn’t exist, not really.”

Clarke stares at him incredulously. Finn is an idealist. He believes that life should be experienced. His philosophy broke Raven’s heart. Clarke isn’t like him. She is a realist. So why did she just cheat on her girlfriend with someone else? Why does she get the feeling that he is right? “You should go to the hospital.”

\---

Clarke wakes Raven up and they take him to the emergency room under the guise of someone having slipped something in his drink. He’s fine, really (despite the dangerous amounts of MDMA in his system), just worked himself up. They sleep in his room with him, and leave that night.

\---

And then Clarke makes the worst decision of her life. She really does. Worse than sleeping with Bellamy (countless times). Worse than all of it. She asks Lexa to come home with her and Raven for Winter Break. The girl turns to her with a carefully blank expression, but Clarke knows Lexa, knows the flutter of her eyelids and a hint that the corner of her mouth has turned up.

When she walks into her first charity ball in months with Lexa on her arm.

She introduces Lexa to Senator Jaha and Wells, watching with pride as the girl shakes hands and discusses policy. Her mother looks on with appraisal and Jaha’s side and she can tell Abby approves (for once). Lexa looks amazing in her tuxedo, hair curled and pushed artfully to the side. She fits right in, and Clarke is reminded about the first time she met Octavia and Bellamy, who looked out of place and angry.

Speaking of which, she looks to her right and see the siblings. Octavia has a glass of champagne in her hand and is talking fiercely to her brother, as if in warning. Clarke knows it’s about her because Bellamy’s eyes connect with hers and the look in them is so complex. Deadly, devastated, and ready to pounce. Part of her is a little satisfied, of course. He thought she wouldn’t do it, wouldn’t dare bring her girlfriend around and say, _I’m not yours._ Another part of her is scared, because that’s the look people give before they self-destruct and bring everything down with them. His jaw clenches when he starts toward her Octavia clutches his arm to hold him back in what looks like a vice-grip.

“—Clarke?”

She turns to Lexa, eyes wide, and she must look vulnerable, struggling to speak. Her mother and Jaha looked concerned, but Wells looks over her shoulder frowns, he already knows. Lexa follows his gaze after a second and Clarke can see the moment where Bellamy glares at her girlfriend and when Lexa's expression becomes steel at the threat in his eyes. Clarke excuses herself to the powder room.

\---

She sits of the floor of the powder room in her dress, the blue material around her feet, heels forgotten, bottle of vodka to her lips. She forgets to lock the door, so Finn comes in a moves her skirts around so he can sit beside her. She passes him the alcohol wordlessly, leans her head on his shoulder.

“I really fucked up, this time,” she mumbles, slurs drunkenly.

Finn chuckles, takes a swig. “Don’t think about that. Let’s just figure out how we’re going to get you out of here without your mom noticing.”

“Or Lexa,” Clarke admits, sadly, looking up at him.

He nods. “Or Lexa.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm pretty sure next chapter is the last one before the epilogue. But then again, this story was supposed to be five chapters, so one never knows. Thank you for reading.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lexa meets Bellamy Blake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings (!!!) for alcohol abuse, language and slight violence. There is a slap or two.

Bellamy never thought he would consider his grandparents’ house home, but alas, he packs clothing and books in his beat up truck and prepares to spend about a month living with them. Even though the city was just an hour away, it is his version of “coming home for the holidays.” When he enters the large house, Octavia launches herself at him like she had almost a year ago, throws her arms around his neck before whispering, _“Thank God, I’m so fucking bored.”_

He detangled himself with a fond smile. He supposes he is the first one back, unsurprisingly. Jasper and Monty are coming from MIT, Wells from Duke, Finn from Columbia, Clarke and Raven from the other side of the country. Right now, it is just the two of them, and he’s glad for it. So they spend the rest of the day marathoning movies and eating ice cream, laughing themselves sore. He hadn’t gotten much free time during the fall semester. In-between school, work, and parties he’d hadn’t had time to do much more than call Octavia (but then again, he did so frequently). Times like this, with her head on his shoulder, spoon falling out of her mouth, was more precious than anything in the world to him.

It seems like a bit of a calm before the raging storm, sure to come when Clarke Griffin steps foot on the east side.

\---

And yeah, it fucking came.

“Bellamy,” O says in warning, and her tone makes his eyes shoot to her in alarm. “I need you to _calm your shit_ ,”

Before he can ask her what the fuck she’s actually talking about, his sister angles her head to the _left._ And there you fucking go, there’s the storm, Clarke Griffin talking more politely and being more tame than he’s ever fucking seen her, dolled up with some girl next to her. From the hand around Clarke’s waist, the way they actually fit so well together, he can only assume who she is. Part of him respects Clarke for actually bringing the girl here, part him want to tear her to pieces.

“I swear to fucking God, Bell, wait until everyone’s drunk enough to cause a scene—“

“I’m going to kill her,” he says with a sardonic laugh, looking everyone but the blonde.

“You need to stop playing games,” Octavia tells him firmly.

 _“I’m playing games_?” This comes out as a yell, and the people around him give him an odd look.

“You both are,” she retorts fiercely. “She brought Lexa here to fuck with you, and you’re being a _little bitch_ because you’re falling for it,” and he knows Octavia is right, but that doesn’t stop his heart from speeding up when he finally connects eyes with hers, and it doesn’t stop him from starting toward her, only Octavia’s firm grip on his arm holds him.

Then he sees Lexa. Who is, fuck, actually kind of hot (if you like total bitches). Maybe she doesn’t know the full story, maybe she does. But, O is right. He and Clarke are playing a game. And he wants to fucking _win_.

So when Clarke disappears in a flurry of blue fabric, he shakes Octavia off and walks over to Lexa. Because he already hates her. And he hates Clarke for bringing her. Hates pretty much everything, at the moment.

“Senator. Mrs. Griffin,” he says through a smirk. The couple looks worried and wary, but they excuse themselves in any case. He gives Wells a nod. “Hey, Wells,” And of course, the boy is looking almost as murderous as Wells Jaha can (which is really just like disappointed and with warning and shit).

“You must be Lexa,” he doesn’t hold out his hand for her to shake, and gives her a look that’s almost interested.

“And you are…?” _Bitch._ She fits right in with this snooty crowd, all pride and ice. Her voice is kind of dead, very cold. He almost snorts. No way this thing is going to last. The blonde is fooling herself. The look she gives him is decidedly unimpressed, but he knows she can feel something going on.

His smirk widens. “Bellamy Blake. I had sex with your girlfriend a couple of times.” This causes Wells choke on his champagne, drawing a bit of attention to them, and Lexa’s eyes widen just a hint. “No worries though. She was just using me to cheat on Finn after she found out Finn was using _her_ to cheat on _Raven_ and then I fucked Raven and-- _it’s a long fucking story_. Clarke didn’t tell you any of this?”

He says nothing about O’s birthday, is saving that for later when things really get ugly. There is a harsh, heavy silence. Lexa’s jaw is slack in anger and surprise. Wells is still choking. Bellamy gives the boy a couple firm claps on the back to help him out.

“No,” Lexa says, carefully stoic, and Bellamy has to admire that. “She didn’t.”

Bellamy sighs. “Well, shit. You give a girl multiple orgasms and she forget to mention you. Not surprised, though. The situation was kind of fucked up. That _and_ I still want her.”

This time, Lexa looks livid, her eyes are steel, boring into Bellamy’s own. He knows the smirk on his face is mean and nasty.

“Excuse me?” she grits out, her tone ice, taking a step toward him. Bellamy doesn’t move.

Bellamy lets out a little breath, a little laugh, raises his eyebrows, and turns to the sputtering Wells to mockingly direct his question at the boy. “Did I stutter?”

She opens her mouth to speak, but O is by his side, trying to pull him away, saying she needs him really quick. His eyes only leave Lexa’s when Octavia leans up and whispers, “Clarke is fucked up in the powder room.”

And then he switches gears, leaves a livid Lexa and a stunned Wells to clean up the damage he caused.

“What did the fuck did you do?” Octavia hisses at him, and Bellamy shrugs, dangerously and maliciously satisfied.

\---

They find Clarke all but passed out in the powder room, Finn guarding the door from society ladies.

“Finally,” he says, and lets them in. Clarke is a beautifully tragic princess, curls messy and dress pooled around her. She looks up, and groans.

“I said get Octavia and _Raven,_ not _him,_ ” she slurs, and Bellamy pretends not to be a bit hurt and instead bends down to scoop her in his arms, bridal style. Immediately her slim arms encircle around his shoulder, she buries her face in his neck in defeat. “I hate you,” she mutters.

Bellamy shrugs once more.

\---

Octavia and Finn distract everyone from Bellamy sneaking out of the party with a whole person in his arms. He drives her back to his grandparents’ house and sets her up in the guestroom, just like before. Takes off her shoes while she lays dizzy on the bed. Lifts her up and unzips the back of her dress, leaves her to curl under the covers in her underwear.

“Don’t say I never did shit for you,” Bellamy deadpans, seated beside her. And admittedly, seeing her now, drunk and sleep and half-naked, he kind of almost regrets ruining her relationship. Feels like an asshole, actually, even more so than usual.

“I’d never say that,” she mumbles back.

“Why’d you get so drunk?” Bellamy asks after soaking in her words, but he knows the answer.

Clarke sighs, eyes closed. “It’s kind of what I do.”

He laughs, and nods. “Yeah, I’m aware of that. What happened?”

There is a silence, and Clarke turns to him. “You know what happened. I just…I suck.”

Bellamy hums in agreement, thinking about everything between them, thinking about half an hour ago. “Me too,” he says, because okay, he does kind of regret being a dick, and when Clarke wakes up and checks her phone and realizes what he did she’s going to hate him.

She turns to him, looks at his eyes dazedly, and asks, seriously, “Bellamy. Aren’t you in love with me?”

He swallows, nervous, and then, because whatever, she probably won’t remember it in the morning, she’s already nodding off to sleep, blue eyes disappearing under her delicate eyelids.

She’s already asleep.

\---

And the morning picks up right where it left off. Clarke is storming downstairs freshly showered and in his sister’s clothes, with O following her, telling her to calm down. She enters the kitchen in a rage, Bellamy turns to meet her, fully expecting the brunt of her anger, welcoming it and dreading it at the same time. He expects her to yell, but instead she raises her hand and slaps him so hard across the face Octavia gasps and covers her mouth.

He’s so shocked he doesn’t know what to say, only looks at her blankly. He’s actually sort of turned on, as well, as weird as that is. Normally, he knows that Octavia would kill anyone who lays a hand on him. But she must heard about last night, because all his sister does is stare. “O,” he says quietly, eyes never leaving Clarke’s. “Give us a minute.”

“Bell…”

“Just a minute,” he says calmly, and fuck he can’t help that he starts to smile because she actually _slapped him._

And when she starts to leave Clarke goes deadly, “You think it’s funny?”

No, but yes, kind of.

“You are fucking crazy--"

"-- _I'm_ crazy? _Clarke Griffin_ is calling  _me_ crazy?"

"--and I’m sick of this,” she tells him stoically.

“Then break up with her,” he retorts simply, taking a step toward her.

Clarke pushes him back. She’s so angry now, and yeah, a part of him is really enjoying it. He’s the type that loves getting a rise out of people. He’s never seen her so full of emotion, it’s bursting out of her, her face is red and her eyes are shiny, she’s shaking. “And do what? Be with you? After _this?_ After, ‘hi, I’m Bellamy Blake and I had sex with your girlfriend’? After spilling my ‘sordid history’ to someone I thought I could start over with?”

Okay, that actually fucking hurts, so he goes in for the jugular, getting in her personal space, “Yeah, okay. So, why’d you bring her here? Did you assume I would let you get away with flaunting her in front of my face? No, _you didn’t_. You wanted me ruin it so you wouldn’t feel bad when you sneak out of her in the middle of night and come crawling into my bed—“

She pushes at him again. And this time he’s a little angry, but the look in her eyes has him stepping back toward her quickly, pushing her against the counter and kissing her harshly. She only fights him for a little while before she gives in, tugging roughly at his hair while he bites her bottom lip, grips her waist.

He pulls back for a second to look at her, trace where he bit her with his thumb like it’s an apology. She’s done being angry, looks so tortured he actually really wants to take it all back. He really does.

“Clarke.” He can’t help but ask her the same question, maybe a little mockingly, with a little smirk. He knows she doesn’t remember anything, but he does it anyway, “Clarke. Aren’t you in love with me?”

Her faces searches his for a moment, eyes steely, because he’s actually daring her to say it, say anything. Lie to him and say no. End it and say yes. If he knew it would end up like this, he might have done things differently. Or not.

Clarke shakes her head, “I can’t,” she says, almost firmly, matter-of-factly, and not at all getting his half-joke. “So why are you wasting your time?”

He knew that. He’s the same way. Only really allowed himself to love Octavia (and yes, okay, his mom, too), the guilt of sleeping with Raven still fucks him up a little, and he can’t really control himself around her. So, what? He’s getting over it. He steps away from her, looks her up and down and scoffs, “No fucking clue.” But it’s actually because she’s hot and smart and damaged and strong. And makes him do stupid things. And everything else he can’t really explain to any other person but her, when he’s close to her and touching her.

And he knows (fucking knows, she just won't admit it) she feels the same way because her touch tells him right back.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not the last chapter because I don't love myself. Please ignore the obvious mistakes. Also comment, please, they give me life.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Monty Green comes out of the closet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back again. Trigger Warnings (!!) for underage drinking, and violent behavior. Which is pretty much Clarke going completely bat-shit at the end. Also, introducing Miller. And sort of Roma but it's a one time thing (I think).

Clarke leaves her dress and heels upstairs. She’s certain Bellamy took them off, tucked her in, put the bottle of water next to her head.

It doesn’t make him any less of an asshole, she thinks as she walks barefoot out of the Blake home, cellphone gripped in her hand, stomach turning at the conversation she’s about to have with Lexa. Octavia is about to give her a ride home, but  the long, elaborate driveway is empty. She’s in Octavia’s sweat clothing, now, shivering in the cold. She knows that the Blakes got Octavia a car for her birthday, a brand new white BMW. But, what comes next is a complete surprise to her.

Octavia comes rolling in with a whooping yell on a _motorcycle,_ clad in a leather jacket and dark jeans _._ She takes her helmet off, shaking her long hair out with a wicked smile. Clarke is speechless.

“Surprise, bitch!” she yells, throwing her head back with a laugh at Clarke’s stunned face, “It’s a fucking _Harley_. Jasper bought it for my birthday!” she clarifies excitedly, “So much better than that stupid car, right?”

Clarke shakes her head incredulously, “When did you get your license?”

And, with a wicked gleam in her eye, a smirk that very much reminds her of Bellamy’s, her best friend asks, “What license?”

Clarke’s eyes widen with shock (and a little fear). But, she’s still reeling off the high of Bellamy’s lips and as odd as it is, she takes the helmet the other girl offers her and climbs on the back, not bothering to hide her excitement, and holds Octavia firm around her waist like she’s seen in movies. The girl turns around to waggle her eyebrows, and then, they were off, and Clarke is very sure she is going way past the speed limit, but they are both laughing, both screaming, and for a moment she is so amazingly free. She forgets about the longing in Bellamy’s eyes masked with almost unbridled anger, and the pit in her stomach when she told him enough was enough. It reminds her of last Spring, taking rides in the back in Bellamy’s truck, one hand gripped in Octavia’s and the other holding the edge of the car for dear life.

Maybe she’ll quit drinking and buy a Harley. And then Octavia takes a sharp turn and she yelps in terror. So maybe not.

When they get to her house, Clarke’s heart is pounding. She takes off the helmet and hands it to Octavia, who gives her a sort of pitying look.

“What?” Clarke asks, insecure and inspected, her glee dissipating.

“I mean…yeah, you both fucked up. But, so what? Clarke. Bell loves you,” Octavia tells her, like she’s explaining to a child (one that she’s suffered long with),“And you love him. So, I don’t get why everything has to be so complicated!”

Octavia might not understand, but Bellamy sure does. And that’s why he let her walk out without a single glance in her direction when she told him enough was enough. Clarke just gives the girl a tight-lipped smile and starts to walks inside.

“Hey!” And just when she thinks Octavia is going to try an advocate again, the girl says, “Don’t tell Bell about the bike? He doesn’t know yet. The dick would probably try to make me get rid of it.”

Clarke laughs with a nod of her head.

\---

The look on Lexa’s face is her typical, careful stoicism that Clarke has come to admire and perhaps even imitate. The thing is, she and Lexa don’t fight, not in the traditional sense, not like she fights with Bellamy. It is such a stark contrast to her argument with Bellamy, all ice while that was fire. This is so much easier.

Lexa has her bags backed, she is sitting on Clarke’s bed. When Clarke closes the door behind her, Lexa stands, arms crossed. The silence only last a few moments before Lexa says, syllables drawn and tense, _“Explain.”_

Clarke takes a deep breath, swallows, and launches into it, “I met him and Octavia last spring—“

“And when did you sleep with him?” Lexa asks, her gaze and voice stoic.

She starts in with the story, “The first time was at Finn’s birthday party, while the two of us were still dating” Lexa raises an eyebrow, “After I found out he was still seeing Raven back in California. I used him, because I was hurt.” Clarke finishes with a breath. It’s a lie, well, partly a lie. The rest is animalistic attraction and kinship she’d never found in anyone else. Anger, sadness, and a bit of self-loathing.

“And that’s it?” Lexa asks expectedly.

Clarke looks above her head, avoids her eyes. “I broke up with Finn. And I had every intention of being with him, and then…”

“Then?”

Her face is carefully blank when she answers, “He told me he slept with Raven, and I moved to California--”

Lexa narrows her eyes, “So a man rejected you and you decided it was a good time to experiment with your sexuality?”

 _That_ wasn’t something she was expecting, “No,” she shakes her head incredulously, a bit insulted, “That’s not it at all. I didn’t expect what happened between the two of us. If I were ‘experimenting’ would I bring you home, would I introduce you to my friends, my mother—?“

“Why _did_ you bring me here?” Lexa demands, taking a step closer, “Revenge?”

Clarke wants to say, _yes_. Because the game with Bellamy is awful, and at first she wanted…God, she doesn’t even know what she wanted. But, now she doesn’t even want to play. That is what it is, at its core. Revenge. Self-destruction. A hate for herself that she’s very aware of. The part she tells Lexa is less complicated. “I brought you here, because I needed a something…else that wasn’t a part of this place,” she tries not to sound desperate, because weakness is not something she can show around Lexa. “I needed something that would keep me grounded because this whole place? It’s _toxic._ It’s not me anymore. I don’t want to feel like shit and drink until I’m sick to numb myself. I just…I _needed_ something to remind me that this isn’t my life anymore.”

It’s not. Her life is sunny beaches and art galleries and white wine. Frappes in Raven’s vintage car and parties at Wick’s house. Her life is no longer the intense longing in between her thighs at the sight of a dark-haired man, or the hate in her heart at seeing her mother with Thelonious Jaha, or drinking vodka and passing out in Octavia’s guest bed, or walking past her father’s study with a chill in her spine. This isn’t her life.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you everything,” Clarke continues, “I just needed a clean slate.”

Lexa is silent for a moment. Her eyes are searching, piercing. “When you came back for his sister’s birthday. Did you have sex with him?”

After a moment of hesitation, Clarke stares back at her, unwavering, “No.”

She looks away. “Okay,” and Lexa begins unpacking, which surprises Clarke.

“Wait. What?”

After a beat, Lexa turns around. She still hasn’t looked at her. Still hasn’t stopped unpacking.

“When I first met you,” she begins, “I was stunned by your dismissal. But, intrigued, as well. So, I asked Wick about you. Using the information he gave me, I then Googled you,” Clarke lets out a noise of surprise, because why doesn’t _she_ ever Google anyone? “I found out about your mother, your father. I found out that your family had a connection to the Senator, and then I asked Wick for your number.”

For a ridiculous moment, she doesn’t know what to do. She wants to laugh. So she does. Just a little, and Lexa looks at her in surprise (as surprised as she can be, anyway). “You used me for _networking?_ ” she asked.

“I didn’t expect to care you,” Lexa snaps, throwing down a pristine white button down. “I didn’t expect to be hurt when a man comes to me and claims that he _wants you_.”

That’s a surprise to her, but she doesn’t let it show. “He wants what he can’t have,” is her answer. And at this Lexa walks over to her and grabs her by the back of the head, kisses her softly, like saying sorry, and spurred by something that she already knows, _he wants her, he wants her,_ they lay down on her bed and the only way she can come is thinking about the kiss they shared earlier that day.

\---

Jasper and Monty finally return, and of course, Octavia is ecstatic to see them. They gather at a bar in the city for their arrival, and though they are underage, Bellamy’s friendship (if one could blatent flirting and eye-fucking a friendship) with the young female owner makes it alright for them to be there. Clarke bites down jealousy at their obvious connection, because they are very familiar with each other. Instead she waits for the arrival of her two friends, whom she hasn’t seen in months. All of them are present but Wells, who has to attend a business breakfast with his father in the morning, and Lexa, who was invited to shadow Senator Jaha as a prospective intern.

Clarke doesn’t want to think about how she was used to get her in that position.

When they finally come in, Octavia barrels her boyfriend with a hug and a deep kiss, to which Bellamy sighs annoyingly, and Jasper looks so excited his grin is almost stupidly (adorably) wide and his face is pink. This is normal, what they expected. What isn’t expected is the young man trailing behind Monty…holding his hand.

Clarke raises her eyebrows at Monty, who pointedly looks away, trying to hide a blush. Octavia looks unaffected, Raven is ordering at the bar, Bellamy looks away after giving the man a look-over, uncaring.

Finn, on the other hand, looks proud and downright _ecstatic._

“Well, fuck, finally!” he exclaims, clapping Monty hard on the back. “I was beginning to think you were going to die a virgin—“

“Oh, my God,” Monty mutters in horror, burying his face in his hands.

Finn embraces the young man, whose name turns out to be Nathan Miller, called “Miller” by everyone but Monty. “Hey! _Hey!_ ” Finn yells, catching the attention of the whole bar, “Everyone gets round of drinks on me, my friend just came out of the closet!” Cheers erupt almost immediately.

Miller howls in laughter, while Monty just groans, “Oh, my _God!”_

Oddly enough, Bellamy and Miller become fast friends, she watches them talk and laugh over beer and whiskey, Bellamy beats him at darts. Meanwhile Monty gives the rest of them the low-down on his surprise boyfriend.

“They met in town, he doesn’t go to MIT—“ Jasper starts, speaking excitedly, though it isn’t his story.

“He sells pot,” Monty finishes matter-of-factly. “I started growing hydroponics, and my friend said _his_ friend needed a supplier. Despite all the sketchy people I have to avoid, it’s really fun.”

Jasper and Monty look at each other and start giggling, because apparently it’s _really fun._ Clarke smiles them, fondly. Because even though they might have started out as Finn’s friends and then Octavia’s, they’re her’s now, as well.

“Well, at least he’s cooler than Lexa,” Finn starts with a snort, “Actually, _scratch that_ , she’s an icy _bitch_ ,”

Raven’s mouth drops open and shocked laughter expels from it, Jasper and Monty cackle even louder, but Octavia is not amused. The killer look on her face makes Jasper pale, and when Clarke gets up and walks over to the bar silently, she can hear Finn going, _“What? It’s true.”_

She orders vodka (obviously), from the pretty owner that’s tending tonight, but it’s a sort of a dive bar (just the type Bellamy likes) and she almost chokes, wincing as it goes down. She’s used to Grey Goose and Belvedere, and it taste like rubbing alcohol down going down her throat.

“What’s wrong, Princess?” the woman (who she has learned has a name, Roma) says, “Servants didn’t put on your big girl panties this morning?” she says it with mocking smugness, and she can’t possibly know what is between Clarke and Bellamy, so she must just be a bitch, plain and simple. But, Clarke has Octavia Blake as a best friend and Raven Reyes as a roommate. She has Lexa as a girlfriend. If there is anything she’s learned from them, it is how to deal with bitches.

Clarke orders a double, and when she downs it again, she looks straight into the woman’s eyes, so cold and unblinking that when she slams the glass on the table the women flinches, startled, as well as the people within hearing distance. Fueled by alcohol and the anger of what Finn just said (as well as the women using Bellamy’s nickname for her), she learns over the bar and gets into Roma’s face.

“If you ever call me that again, you’ll regret it,” she says, voice somewhere between stern, calm, and cold, “Also? Him?” she nods her head behind her at Bellamy, “Not a good idea.”

At this, Roma narrows her eyes and smiles sticky-sweet. “Really. And why is that?”

Clarke answers without missing a beat, “Because he’s completely insane. Fun fact?” she leans in closer, stoic as she looks Roma in the eyes, “So am I.”

She sits back on her bar stool and orders another drink. Roma gives it to her without question, visibly taken aback as she disappears to the back. By the time Monty reaches her another bartender has already given her another double.

“Man of the Hour!” Clarke greets him mockingly, “Come to tell me what a bitch my girlfriend is, too?”

Monty’s mouth slowly widens into an embarrassed grin. He looks back at the table where the rest of their friends are seated, who look back with guilty expressions (obviously chastised by Octavia), and then answers with a helpless shrug, “If you want,” as he slides on the stool next to her.

“I should be the one feeling like shit. I told her everything. I told her about how Bellamy and I met, what happened with Finn—“

Monty sucks in a painful breath.

“And she said... _okay.”_

After a stunned silence, Monty turns to her, echoing her words from earlier, “Wait. _What?”_

Clarke nods, smiling with reticence. “I guess it didn’t matter to her because up until this point, she had been using me for my connections.” At Monty’s shocked look, she continues, “To Jaha. She used me for fucking networking. Or rather, she fucked me for networking,” she finishes with scornful laugh.

 _“Fuck,”_ Monty says, incredulously, “Who _does_ that?”

“Power-hungry Law students trying to become politicians. Who will screw anyone over just to get their foot in the door,” Clarke says, raising her glass in a mock toast.

After more silence, Monty says quietly, “I thought you hated those types.”

She takes a deep breath, and gulps down the rubbing alcohol vodka, “I do.”

The thing about Monty is that he’s perceptive. As odd as he and Jasper are together, separately, they are the smartest people she knows. Wells might have been their community’s Golden Boy, but Monty and Jasper are literal geniuses. They made Valedictorian and Salutatorian, respectively, without even trying. According to Octavia, their speeches were inspired by the Star Wars prologue.

Monty nods in understanding, hesitates for a moment, and then looks at her. “When your dad died, I came to the funeral,” he starts, almost rambling, and she looks at him in utter surprise. “Because, you know, we grew up together and stuff, and Jasper’s parents wanted us both to go. And after that, I was kind of worried. I mean, we weren’t friends or anything yet, but you seemed really sad. And then Finn came along and honestly? It didn’t get better. I mean, Finn’s great and stuff, and fun, and everything. I guess. But then, Octavia…and Bellamy moved into the neighborhood and you actually seemed like you were okay. Even after you broke up with Finn, and I didn’t talk to you for a while. But, now…” Monty hesitates even more, and puts a hand over hers on top of the bar, “I just got here, but everyone’s been telling me—“

Clarke turns to him with narrowed eyes, moving her hand away, “ _Who’s_ been telling you _what_?”

Monty bites his lip, “You seem really sad, Clarke. And it’s like, you’re pretending _not_ to be sad, which is way worse.”

He is worried about her. She thinks back to Finn’s words a couple of months ago, Octavia’s pitying look, and realizes. They’re all worried about her, and _talking about her_. And they have reason to be. Sure, she isn’t cutting class, or drinking herself sick (often), or disappearing for days. But, nothing has changed. For all the therapy and the healthy habits and the bullshit, God, _nothing has changed._ She is still the same person. This is still her life.

Clarke gets up abruptly, and Monty reaches for her, “Clarke, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—“

“Its fine,” Clarke cuts him off, walking over to their table and picking up her coat, ignoring all the inquiries of where she is going. Bellamy and Miller have migrated back, and she ignores the feeling of the former’s dark eyes on her, “I’m just going to hail a cab, I’m really tired.”

“Do you need a ride home?” Bellamy asks, and only she (definitely Octavia as well) would recognize that the easy tone in his voice is masking concern.

She avoids his eyes and plasters a smile on her face, “No, I’m good! Getting a cab,” she repeats, and walks out quickly, letting the crisp and cold air fill her lungs. She starts down the street a bit before waving her arms at a yellow taxi, head stirring and chest empty as she lets it take her home.

\---

Clarke feels even more empty when she walks in her mother’s house, drags her feet, and by some force, something she can’t explain, she takes herself to her father’s study. Her heart beats hard and fast in her ears as she opens the double door, and she half-expects to see him hanging from the ceiling, eyes cold and dead. What she sees however, is completely worse.

Her breath quickens and the weight of the world crashes on her chest as she takes in her surroundings. A new, glass desk completely different from her father’s dark glossy wood, a large black chair with wheels that is a start contrast from her father’s tall, leather chair. The room has been completely remodeled, modernized as if Jake’s traditional, English-style study never existed.

Something bubbles inside her, chokes her, and her tears stream down from her eyes. She’s shaking uncontrollably, and when it reaches the surface, she realizes what it is.

Rage. Unadulterated, unbridled. Consuming every inch of her.

Clarke sees red, flies around the room, attacking the desk first, shoving papers and the laptop off onto the hard floor and then overturns the glass desk with a strength she didn’t know she possessed. It shatters with a painfully loud crash. She grabs the chair and hurls it as hard as she can across the room, tears down light fixtures, smashes delicate decorative vases and bowls (Jake hated decorating for the sake of decorating, everything in his study had _purpose)._ When she gets to the book shelves her heart almost stops. They’re gone. All of his books are gone. With an anguished cry she tears at the books that are not her father’s, ripping them off the shelves and pulling out pages by clumps.

_“Clarke!”_

She turns around so fast she almost gets whiplash, eyes wide and face red, a deer caught in the headlights as Lexa and her mother look at her.

“Clarke, what are you doing?” Abby looks around the destroyed room in utter horror.

Breathing heavily, all she says is, voice hoarse with screaming and tears and anger, “Where are they?”

“Clarke…” her mother says, again, walking carefully over glass and approaching her as if she is a wild animal, “Sweetheart, calm down---“

 _“_ WHERE ARE THEY?!”she shouts, and Abby flinches, backs away, “Where are his _books_? Where is his _chair_ , his _desk,_ where’s--where’s the Globe he got from Oxford? _What did you do?”_

Lexa is looking on behind her mother, defensive and shocked, and Clarke knows what she’s thinking, she didn’t sign up for this, this isn’t Clarke.

Except it is.

Abby visibly swallows, next words more stern, “Clarke, we remodeled when you were at school, we thought it was time to move past—“

Clarke laughs, dark and harsh and loud, “ _We?_ You and Jaha? So this is Jaha’s study, now—“

“Clarke—“

She continues tearing at the books, struggling to pull out a thick hand full of pages, oblivious to her mother calling her name until the woman has reached her put a gentle, hesitant hand on her shoulder. Clarke pulls back as if burned, crashing back into the book shelf.

“Don’t. Touch me,” she warns, tears sliding freely over her cheeks. “Don’t.”

Abby searches her face desperately, takes a couple breathes, and then calls over her shoulder, “Lexa. Go into my office, and get the card in my desk. It’s blue, white lettering. Call the number and tell them our address, please.”

That worries her, actually. Clarke pushes past her mother, and then past Lexa who reaches for her, pulls her close with an almost hurtful grip on her arm, “Clarke,” she says from gritted teeth, in a voice that leaves no room for argument, one that usually calms her, “You need to breathe, and you need to calm down. You’re acting like _child.”_

Clarke stares at her, utterly betrayed, yanks her arm away, and, taking a page out of Bellamy Blake’s Asshole Book, she says, “When I told you I didn’t have sex with Bellamy in October? I _lied_. And when I told you he wants what he can’t have? I. _Lied_. Have fun networking tomorrow. Maybe you'll find someone to sleep with that has better connections.”

And there is moment were Lexa’s gaze wavers, her jaw trembles, and then she is steel again, moves out of Clarke's way so the girl can run past her and out of the house, into the snowy air.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading and being with me on this journey. I would have updated earlier, but I've been sick, and procrastinating with a TVD AU (because I'm legit poop) that will be coming out soon. Gods save me.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke Griffin is a lot of things, but crazy isn't one of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like this chapter took forever, and I'm not 100% happy with it, but I hope you all enjoy. Also, trigger warnings (!!!) for mental health issues, hospitalization, and somewhat detailed sex, mentions of drug abuse.

It is difficult to ignore Clarke Griffin, but Bellamy sure does try. He plays darts with Monty’s boyfriend, Nathan Miller. Miller is pretty cool. Almost beats him at darts. Almost. Miller is twenty-one, but only drinks beer, which is probably a good thing. Bellamy points it out and tells him that he’s pretty much signing up to be the group’s designated driver.

“Someone has to be,” Miller comments at him pointedly while taking a shot at the board, while Bellamy sips on his whiskey with a snort. It’s true. Being the oldest, it’s sort of goes with the territory to take care of the rest of them, but like always, Bellamy is pretty shit with that. They usually end up taking a town car or a cab home. There’s also the fact that though young, most of the group is prone to getting shit-faced. The only one he can control is Octavia, but she isn’t really the type to get plastered just because.

When he makes it back to the table, Clarke leaves in a way that makes him worried. So worried he goes over to the bar to flirt with Roma to forget about it. When she starts to silently pour him a drink, he raises an eyebrow, because usually the woman is fucking throwing herself at him, chatting on about nothing at all, eye-fucking him.

Roma rolls her eyes, “Your girlfriend is a crazy bitch.”

His eyes narrow in conclusion, and when he finally realizes she’s talking about Clarke he laughs out loud, shakes his head, because _fucking Clarke._ “She’s not my girlfriend,” he clarifies.

His phone rings, and when he realizes that Wells Jaha is calling him, Bellamy sighs and ignores the call, because he can’t be bothered with Wells’ lectures and overall bitching. Every slip up he made was judged by the young man, constantly critiqued, especially when it came to Clarke Griffin. Bellamy would have assumed after everything, Wells would stop following her around like a lost puppy. Even if Octavia assumed Wells had no feelings for the girl (and he never admitted it), Bellamy knew the affection Wells had for Clarke was more than just them eventually becoming siblings. He wonders how awkward family dinners were going to be.

After the third call, Bellamy gives up, answers the annoyingly incessant little shit. Before he can even get a word out, Wells yells, “Where is she?”

Bellamy rolls his eyes, gets up from their table without excusing himself, walking to a quieter corner of the bar, “Clarke’s not here, she took a cab home—“

“I _know,_ but now, she’s not home, she ran off—“

“Look. Wells. Do you Clarke? Clarke Griffin? Blonde, about five feet, couple inches? Gets too drunk? Prone to taking off for days at a time—“

Wells next words are as heated as he’s ever heard the boy, he’s practically shouting into the phone and that’s how he knows it’s serious, for one, “Jesus _fucking_ Christ, Bellamy, this is fucking serious, her mom says she was fucking hysterical, and _violent_. She’s afraid Clarke’s going to hurt herself. She’s calling the _police_.”

Bellamy has never heard Wells swear. “I’ll find her,” he says, a little stunned.

“Just…I’m sending you Abby’s number.”

Bellamy rushes back to the table and picks up his jacket. Octavia sees the look on his face and her expression goes serious and she gets up, tugs on her coat, while simultaneously, asking, “What’s wrong?”

\---

They all split up to look for her. Bellamy takes Octavia and Jasper home so they can take her bike and car respectively around their old school. (“It’s literally in the garage with a sheet on it, O. Fucking obvious.”) He watches her get on and stops her, holding out her black helmet insistently, and she smiles sheepishly, and Bellamy pulls her in for a tight hug.

“She wouldn’t do it,” he mumbles in her ear, smoothing her hair.

“I know,” she starts, bouncing impaitiently, and taking a deep breath. Bellamy watches her breath coil white in front of her, “But it’s really cold.”

\---

His hands grip the wheel tightly as he rolls out of the neighborhood, and down the dark and lonely highway they all take to and from the city. Because she couldn’t have gotten that far, right? It’s snowing, the roads are slick, so he takes it slow, even better to make sure his eyes dart around and look for a flash of blonde hair.

Right. So he has to be strong for his sister (and maybe for everyone else), but it’s still a really shitty situation. Because God, he can’t stand losing her, too. He probably couldn’t take it. He knows Octavia would be destroyed, and even contemplating that, without his own take on it, is enough to make him feel like complete shit. He knows she is messed up, perhaps more than anyone, but the possibility of her hurting herself beyond getting drunk and throwing up really never crosses his mind. His mother was big on threatening to take her own life, especially when she didn’t have drugs to ease her daily pain. Clarke didn’t seem like that.

The grip on the steering wheel is almost painful at this point, and then he sees it.

Blaze of blonde hair in his headlights, she turns around, eyes catching the light, big and blue and scared as the car rolls past her. It is the best and the worst thing he’s ever seen in his life. He stops ahead of her, heart racing as he opens the passenger seat door.

“Clarke!” he bellows, “Get in.”

But, stubborn as all _fuck,_ she keeps walking, and he notices her arms wrapped around herself, she doesn’t have a coat.

He swears under his breath and gets out, jogs a few steps over to her and grabs her by the arm (through her thin sleeve she is cold), ignoring her protests as he drags her to the passenger side, tugs her roughly toward him, “Get in the fucking car,” he grits out, and the look in her eyes, dead, distant, but still like a scared animal, breaks his fucking heart.

After a second, he all but shoves her inside the truck, and, not even thinking about it, rips off his leather jacket and tucks it around her, gets into the car and blasts the heat. But, he only gets so far, just a little far, because his mind is whirling and he can barely think, perhaps he is shaking a bit, maybe from the cold, maybe not. Bellamy swears and stops the car, like _slams_ the brakes, and it shocks her, she jumps and yells a little.

Then, he leans over, hand on the back of her head and kisses her hard, it’s pretty much just a severe press against her mouth, “ _Don’t you ever do this to me again,”_ he hisses. “I swear to God, I will kill you. Do you hear me? I will kill you.”

Face dazed, Clarke nods a little.

He leans back in his chair, takes a deep, shaky breath. Tosses her his phone, “Call your mom. And Wells. And O. Call _everyone._ ”

After a moment of silence, Clarke confesses, “She wants me in a hospital,” and then turns to him, “She thinks I’m suicidal. I can’t go back there.”

Bellamy glances her, “Wells said you were violent.” What he doesn’t say is, _are you suicidal?_ He wonders if he should just take her back, maybe it was better that way, maybe she needs help. Maybe he is wrong about it all.

She visibly swallows, closes her eyes before opening them and dialing numbers. So he takes her home, which is an odd concept, these days. The penthouse is not particularly _homey,_ with its modern feel, steel staircase. The only thing that’s very nice is Octavia’s room. Even though she’s not there often, they put effort into making it feel comfortable for when she is there. Also, he has to admit that he passes by and looks into it when he misses her.

When they get home, he tosses his keys to the valet. When he first moved in, pulled up in his old truck and handed the middle-aged man his keys, he was greeted with a dirty, superior look. It continued every time since then. But tonight, with Clarke bundled in his jacket, makeup smeared and eyes red as he helps her out, the valet pointedly looks away.

When they take the elevator he is reminded of pushing her against the side of it, mouth on hers. He looks at her now, hair messed up from the snow, eyes bleary. She looks just a beautiful, he thinks, even if that’s an inappropriate thought.

When they get to his apartment, Octavia and Jasper are already there, and she throws her arms around Clarke, holds her tight, “Don’t ever fucking do that again,” she exclaims, echoing his earlier words, “You scared the fucking shit out of me!”

Later, he makes them all hot chocolate, because he’s used to taking care of people. Never mind that it’s spiked with whiskey. When Clarke takes a sip, her blue eyes lift up to him expectantly. He narrows his eyes a little bit, than snorts and takes it back, goes back to the kitchen to make it stronger.

“What happened?” Octavia asks softly.

Clarke shakes her head, she looks tired, “Nothing. Nothing happened.“

Bellamy is back in the room, holding out the mug to her. When he hears her words, he lifts an eyebrow, “Nothing caused you to run out of your house without your jacket, without your phone—“

“Hey. Bellamy?” Octavia lifts her eyes at him, incredulously, “Shut up.”

Clarke just closes her eyes, sets the mug on the coffee table runs both hands to her hair. Under her eyes are dark bags, “I’m tired. I just need to sleep, I’m so _tired._ ”

Octavia sighs, puts an arm around Clarke and pulls her so she’s nestled into O’s side. She shoots Bellamy and Jasper concerned looks, and Bellamy sips on his hot chocolate.

Later on, Bellamy is in his bedroom, sat on the foot of his bed, on the phone with Wells _fucking_ Jaha, who is running his _fucking_ mouth. But Wells has never had to take care of anyone, never had a sister (fuck, he doesn’t even really have Clarke, even if their parents are fucking).  Wells doesn’t know shit.

“You don’t know shit,” Bellamy tell him, speaking easily, “It’s called the ‘Involuntary Admission’—“

“I know what it’s called—“

Its bullshit, but it’s true. His mother’s dead, and no one’s going to be gone for weeks at a time because they got picked up by the police. “Then you know she could be in there for up to two months. That she won’t see anyone for days, and they’ll pump her full of drugs—“

“Okay, but have you ever thought, _maybe it’s what she needs?”_

Of course, he’s thought about that. He’s fucking thought about it. But, Clarke Griffin is a lot of things. She’s talented, yes. He’s seen her art, from pictures on Facebook that Raven takes while Clarke is turned around in her stool, wine in her hand and charcoal on her cheek. She can be a total bitch. Clarke calls him an asshole but she’s the one that scared off Roma so well the woman wouldn’t even talk to him. The girl could go from smiling to Ice Princess, three seconds flat. She’s bisexual. Has horrible taste in women, if Lexa is any example, but she likes them nonetheless. She’s loud in bed, especially after three orgasms. She’s perhaps a _bit_ unstable if one takes into consideration the drinking, and running off in negative Fahrenheit weather. But, she’s not crazy. Not suicidal, _not_ violent.

Just as he’s about to open his mouth, Bellamy hears his door close, turns around sees her. Clarke leaning against his door, her eyes unreadable as she stares at him. She is showered, her skin impossible clean and free of makeup, hair washed and still damp. She is wearing his shirt and he’s pretty sure nothing else.

Bellamy stares for a minute, blinks, and feels the corner of his mouth lift in a bit of a smile, his skin heat, “Wells? I’ll call you back.”

“Wha-? Bellamy! We’re not done here.”

“Bye, Wells,” he says as Clarke straddles him, slides her hands up his bare chest, neck and then hair. He closes his eyes, she kisses him, barely a brush of her lips on his. He throws his phone somewhere behind him, and he hands slide up her thighs and then her hips, and he chuckles incredulously against her mouth, trying to control himself, because he was right, there is nothing under the shirt.

“Clarke…” he says, quietly, in warning.

“I broke up with her,” she whispers, taking a moment to pull back and look at him.

Well. She had to make it hard for him. It’s what he wants, yes. But, somehow it isn’t right.

“Was that before or after you destroyed your father’s study?” he says, eyeing her soberly.

Clarke’s face crumbles just a tad, and then, “That wasn’t my father’s study,” she says, shaking her head, “She took everything out. They changed everything. Like he wasn’t ever there. She didn’t even _tell me_.”

Bellamy frowns, he brushes her wet hair back with a gentle hand, cradles her face, “That’s fucked up.”

She laughs, but it turns into a sob, “Yeah. Yeah, it is fucked up,” and after a moment she looks at him again, speaking quickly, almost helplessly, “They took his reading lamp. The green, glass one. The kind you find in old libraries. He had a Monet on the wall. I don’t know where it is, either. I just…I _lost_ it. I don’t know why, I don’t know what happened. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

He pulls her in, arms around her.

“There’s nothing wrong with you. You get upset. Everyone gets upset. You just suck at dealing with it.”

At this, he feels a smile against his bare shoulder. A tiny, but genuine smile. Bellamy supposes she’s gotten used to his blunt truth-telling. “I know,” she says, quietly, curiously. Kinship. That’s what he first saw in her, and probably vise-versa. He wanted her so much, still does. He would never give up that moment, her gulping on a screwdriver and mouthing off to her mother. “What should I do?” Clarkes asks, suddenly looking small.

He shrugs, “Stop pretending. Stop lying. Stop acting like everything is better, and you won’t go crazy when it’s the last straw,” he sighs, “When I saw you that first day back. With Lexa, and Wells, and your mom, his dad. Looking like a big happy fucking family, and…I just thought, _she must be fucking miserable_. There’s no way she would have a conversation with her mom and Jaha without screaming at the top of her lungs. She must really be miserable.”

She laughs again, still a bit teary, “Yeah, I _was_ fucking miserable. And then I saw your _death glare_ and I was even more miserable. And then…“

“Sorry,” he says quietly, a little put out, “I was a dick,” he confirms, “I don’t know how to deal with shit either.”

She kisses him then, softly, and then harder, Bellamy grips her soft hips, runs the pads of his fingers over her back before his conscience can stop him. And _fuck,_ then she starts grinding against him, moaning into his mouth, and he really does have to stop before things get too heated. Jesus Christ, it’s been several months, and no matter how many other girls he’s been through, it’ll always be Clarke Griffin.

“It’ll always be you, too,” she whispers against his mouth, running her hands all over him, and wow, he really has to fucking stop being so distracted by her he says this shit out loud.

He pulls away, “Wait,” as her lips trails from his lips to his jaw, to right under, sucking on his jugular.

But, then she whimpers, against his neck, “No.”

“Yes,” he argues, and cradles his face in her hands so he can look at her, “I don’t want…not this way.” He says the last part almost shy, and she smiles at him so tenderly he rolls his eyes to cover his embarrassment, because how the fuck did he get so soft over her? He wants to feel pathetic, but then she climbs off him and onto his bed, taking his hand so he follows her under the covers.

And yeah, well, they talk all night. About everything. More confessions than conversation. He tells her about how he’s completely alright with being a teacher, and she tells him she isn’t sure she’s getting a real college experience at CALARTS, and wants to transfer to go to UCLA with Raven. She admits that he scares her, and Bellamy admits she scares him, too. They say everything. She tells him every bit that she’s kept from herself, all the things he already knew. How her father ruined love for her, and that she isn’t sure what it all means. Bellamy tells her that he isn’t sure how to live for himself. That without taking care of his sister, he isn’t sure what his lifemeans. He tells her he’s trying to find out. That it’s actually fucking hard.

They say everything. Everything but “ _I love you,”_ because even though it’s true (at least for him) they are still scared.

\--

In the morning, he wakes up to his dick in Clarke’s mouth. Which isn’t horrible feeling, it’s actually a fucking amazing feeling, _Jesus fucking Christ_ —

 _“Clarke,”_ he says hoarsely, and means to use his hand to push her off, but instead it tangles in her hair, he ends up rolling his head back with a groan.

She starts to kiss up his body, and yeah, he’s a little disappointed, but then she slides up her bare breasts are pressed against his chest and she kisses him, deep and slow and dirty.

Bellamy opens his mouth to speak, but she covers her mouth with her hand.

“Bellamy,” Clarke says, matter-of-factly, “I was upset last night. But, I’m fine this morning, and I still want you.”

Bellamy can’t help but smile a bit against her hand, and she must feel it, because she uncovers his mouth and kisses him again, pulls away so she can reach between then and guide him into her. She closes her eyes. Damn it, he loves that. They flutter close while he grips her hips and Clarke rocks against him, grinding hard just like he taught her several months ago in his car, right after they left Finn’s birthday party. She’s so glorious and tight and wet, on top of him, around him, nails scratching down him chest, breast kneaded in his hands. He’s eyes trail over her, he almost loses it seeing his cock disappear inside of her, When she comes he rolls them over, bites and sucks down her body, her neck, her breasts, her thighs, and then licks into her until she’s shuddering, bucking, and gripping his hair.

He wants to say _“God, I love you, I fucking love you,”_ while he fucks her hard into his mattress, but instead he whispers hotly into her ear, _“I want you to come, I want you to come for me.”_

She winds her fingers in his hair tight and comes hard and loud, and he groans her name, collapses ontop of her. Clarke’s hands loosen up and start to stoke his hair as he pants into her collarbone. Wonders briefly how interesting it would be if he can see his breath fog up her skin like it does glass. Instead he places an open-mouthed kiss there, tongue darting out to taste her sweet/salty skin, chuckling when she squirms beneath him.

\---

They come out of his bedroom and down the stairs to see Octavia and Jasper curled up in the living room with donuts and coffee. Jasper wisely chooses to keep his amused (and embarrassed) expression pointed down, Octavia, on the other hand, looks severely unimpressed, sipping on her coffee (it’s probably a macchiato, she likes the sugary stuff).

“Could you guys be anymore gross?” Octavia asks immediately, “The wall are _thin.”_

Bellamy rolls his eyes and out of the corner of his eye, he sees the adorable (he’s fucking lame) flush on Clarke’s cheeks. They sit down next to them on the floor, and Octavia passes him a cup of something dark and sweet. Clarke’s is actually chai latte with soy, because she’s a fucking weirdo hipster, and apparently dating Finn has her used to not drinking real milk.

They talk, they laugh, Clarke leans against him and rests her hand on his and he feels more normal and better and happier than he’s ever felt. Like, ever. When Octavia stuffs a sprinkled pink donut in Clarke’s mouth with a boisterous laugh, he chuckles at her trying to ostentatiously talk with a full mouth, and barks in laughter after the dirty joke Jasper makes because of it.

Everything is fine (amazing), until.

“Good morning,” Abby Griffin walks into his living room in her high heels and pencil skirt, “You should really fire your doorman.”

The silence is actually fucking deafening. Clarke is looking pointedly away from her mother.

“Or kill him,” Bellamy says matter-of-factly, smiling nastily, taking a sip of his coffee and putting an arm around Clarke. Abby narrows her eyes at this, and normally he’s not one to blatantly show affection around people, but the look of Abby’s face really satisfies him. He didn’t have a reason to hate her, before. Sure, she was sort of a pretentious and judgmental bitch, at least from what Clarke has said. But, there is a clear and honest dislike for her, now, and when he glances at Octavia’s fierce glare, he knows that he’s not the only one that feels this way.

“What you doing here, Mom?” Clarke asks, voice gone of all cheer, and it sucks.

Abby takes a deep breath, smoothing a stray strand of dark blonde hair back into her bun. “Clarke, sweetheart—“ (Clarke scoffs), “I came to take you home—“

“I’m not going home,” she snaps quickly, eyes a little wide, body tense. Her works are short and clipped. “That’s not my home.”

The woman’s gaze flickers from her, to Bellamy, to Octavia, and then Jasper, who coughs nervously and gulps his coffee. She looks at her daughter and Bellamy sees real concern on her face. He’s reminded that she’s been through this before, with Clarke’s father. In the back of his mind, he knows this can’t be easy for her. She probably thinks she’s doing the right thing. “Clarke, you need to come with me. You’re not well, do you understand that?”

“Fuck you,” Clarke says with zero-to-no emotion.

Abby’s face goes tight and angry. There is a moment of silence, and then, “Can I have a moment alone with my daughter, please?”

From the kitchen he can hear Clarke yelling. Octavia stands across from him with a look of concentrated nervousness on his face, and he knows it so well. Both of their arms are crossed, their eyes distracted as they zone in on bits of words and phrases.

Clarke enters the kitchen, and the look on her face is careful blankness, so Bellamy suspicious. He’s in front of her and his face might look worried, but she shakes her head. “I have to go,” Clarke says.

Bellamy frowns, a bit of dread runs through him, like cold, “What?”

Clarke tucks a stand of blonde hair behind her ear, nervously, like her mother, “Voluntary admission,” she clarifies, avoiding his eyes, “I’ll be out in three days. Three days,” she nods.

But, he’s shaking his head, Octavia is next to them, asking, “What the fuck are you talking about?”

Clarke embraces his crying sister, it’s like the role is reversed from the night before, holding her, stoking her hair, “If I don’t go, she’ll use a court order, and they can keep me longer,” she shrugs, “I’m fucked either way.”

Three days really isn’t that bad.

 He tries to tell himself that as he holds her, breathing in the smell of her hair. Jesus. He’d been without her for so many months, but three days feels like an eternity. Feels like forever, God, he wants to take her away. He meets Abby Griffin’s eyes from over the town car and she lifts her chin haughtily.

Just like last night, there are so many thing he wants to say.

And he must have said that aloud ( _fuck),_ because all she says, with a sad smile is, “Three days,” and then a soft kiss on his lips. She starts to pull away but he pulls her back, kisses her deep and long until Abby clears her throat politely, and he pulls away with an annoyed look. Clarke gives him a watery smile, fingertips against his jaw, eyes flitting over him as if she’s trying to memorize his face, “Bye.”

“Bye,” and he holds her hand until he can’t anymore and she’s all the way in the car.

When Octavia sniffs and leans into Jasper, Bellamy looks back at the couple. “It’s not going to be like Mom,” he says, trying for firm, but failing, sort of, falling flat. He’s sure he sounds dead. “She’ll be in some fancy place with five-star meals. Her own room. She can refuse medicine since she’s signing herself in. No bars on the windows. No detox. No creepy orderlies.”

Octavia nods, but he can see she’s still shaken.

“Three days,” Jasper says, like it’s their mantra, trying for confidence and enthusiasm, pulling Octavia close, “She’ll be back for Christmas!”

Bellamy watches the car roll down the street with his hands tucked into his pockets, feet shoulder-width apart. Jasper is right, he thinks. A couple of days is nothing. But, there is something so cruel about having held her and kissed her and fucked her and having her be forcefully pulled away from him. It’s sort of pathetic, but he really fucking wishes he can go back to last night, live about the last nine hours over again, back to that exact moment where the two of them are so close they are breathing the same air. She’d fallen asleep mid-sentence and as his eyes drifted close, he realized that they finally, _completely_ belong to one another.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. We're near the end. I can almost taste it.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke Griffin takes a vacation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hardest chapter ever, I feel like it sucks. It is taken from my experience (and others' I've literally eye-witnessed) and thoughts while in hospitalization, so it was lowkey cathartic to write. Hospitalization is no joke, the "vacation" crack in summary was from a journal we were encouraged to write in, where I wrote something about taking a vacation from life/reality. 
> 
> Also trigger warnings (!!!) hospitalization, mentioned drug/alcohol abuse, sedation, medication, medical negligence, implied/referenced suicide.

In the town car, Clarke keeps her face blank, and almost laughs out loud, because this here, this is exactly what Bellamy was taking about. Exactly. Her keeping her emotions buried, deep down, ignoring them until they split over in crippling rage. Thinking about him made her feel empty inside, she wanted to claw out her chest. She thought about him, the harsh kiss he seared into her lips in his truck, his eyes dark and pleading when he told her he’d kill her. The feel of his hands gripping her hips, his mouth all over her, the way he spoke so absently, not knowing she could hear. The tender touch of his fingers sweeping back her hair. That confession in his eyes and hands. Everything inside him touching everything inside her.

She chokes on a sob, and covers her mouth. Clarke would be damned if she cried in front of Abby, but she couldn’t help it. Tears roll down her face as if of their own accord. When her mother reaches out a hand, the lightest of touches on her arm, Clarke jerks back, “Just… _don’t_ ,” she tells her, “Please don’t.”

Clarke hears Abby sigh, “Clarke, please. I’m doing this _because I love you_.”

Clarke spends several seconds not saying anything at all. Not speaking to her mother. Then, she says, with tears streaming from her eyes, “I want you to know one thing. After all of this is over,” she looks her mother dead in the eye, and Abby flinches at what she sees there.

“You and I. I don’t ever want to see you again.”

Abby clears her throat, looks away from her daughter with a pained expression. “When you’re better, we can talk about—“

“There is nothing to talk about!” Clarke shouts, “There is _nothing_ left to say! I don’t want to talk to you. Ever again.”

She slumps against the dark window, trying to remember the sound of Octavia and Jasper’s laughter, the feel of Bellamy’s arm around her, insides stirring with pain and turmoil, when she realizes something.

“Wait. I thought we were going back…I thought I was going to pack. And you said Raven wanted to see me before I left.” Clarke looks wildly out of the window, noticing their crawl out of the city, the opposite way of their neighborhood, in absolutely horror. She gives her mother a betrayed look.

After a moment of silence, Clarke demands, “What is going on?”

Abby’s face is so carefully blank, so vastly different then her pained expression not minutes before that Clarke is actually startled. She swallows, but other than that, speaks like the doctor she is, all carefully placed and false compassion, “If you were voluntary you could refuse treatment. Refuse medication. I put the court order in. I just…didn’t want you to be picked up by the police, I didn’t want you have to go through all of that.”

Clarke is so shocked it takes a moment before she grabs at the handle to the door frantically, lamenting when it doesn’t open, doesn’t even keep trying. She shakes her head, because there is no way Abby would give up control over the situation, not for a second.

She turns to her mother, and says, matter-of-factly, as they leave the city and onto the highway, “You are such a _bitch._ ”

\---

The grounds are out of the city, away from everywhere, picturesque and isolated, with expansive gardens and courtyards. She faces her mother among being prompted to give a goodbye. Abby reaches for her daughter, and is visibly hurt when she recoils. Clarke looks at her, turns around and begins to walk through the double doors.

Later, she is naked, and a nurse is taking down any marks on her body, just in case there are new ones when she gets out. Scars on her knees from childhood, scrapes from craft projects. Then she is signing papers, doing blood tests, giving over her _shoelaces._

When she gets to her room, her things are already there. She’s in still in Bellamy’s shirt, jacket, and sweatpants, sits at the foot of her bed, curtains drawn, hair hanging around her face and she stares down at her hands. When she crawls into the bed, the sheets are cold and starched, and they tell her she won’t be able to make a phone call for 48 hours, so she screams loud into her pillow, her shouts tremble, shake, and turn into sobs.

She’s shaking and crying uncontrollably when a nurse come into her room to check on her, and calls orderlies. Clarke begs them to leave her alone, she’s fine, she really is, just _upset,_ just _sad, is she not allowed to be_ _sad?!_

But, at this point, she is hysterical. It built up quickly, coming from the utter anguish of having to leave what was turning out to be the happiest day she’d had in a while. Suddenly it was gone, and all that was left was the empty feeling she had to fill with the absence of books and a mother who just _did not get it_. When they start holding her down on her stomach, she rages wildly, trying to rip away from their grasps, “Let go of me— _LET GO OF ME!”_

She gets one with a kick to the face, but another sticks a needle in her ass. It’s odd, the feeling. As if enters her veins, she feels her eyes roll back and herself slipping away into darkness.

\---

Clarke’s eyelids flutter open, her gaze is fogged, at first, but then she wakes completely, senses dull, head lulled back. She’s only aware she has muttered, _“Tranqs,”_ when a calm voice replies, “That’s right, Miss Griffin.”

“Fuck you.” God. She hates it when people call her that. She thinks back to her mother, correcting people when they fucked up and called her “Missus”. She is not married anymore. “I need to make a phone call,” she slurs, “I need a phone.”

“Hm,” and she imagines he must be checking his watch, or something, “You’ve got about 30 hours left, give or take, Miss Griffin.”

She’d been asleep for about eighteen hours. Clarke knows enough about medicine (there was a time where she was going to study it) to know that they probably injected her with an anti-psychotic, make a benzo. “I need my lawyer,” and she tries for firm but her body is so liquefied, her tongue so heavy that is probably doesn’t come out that way. Clarke forces her head to the side to take in the blurry doctor. Pale, pale skin. Inky, greasy hair.

“Hmmm,” he answers dismissively, scribbling on what looks to be my chart. “My name is Dr. Wallace. I’m a psychiatrist. My father, also Dr. Wallace, is out of town for a few days, so I’m taking on his patients while he is away. Are you feeling better now?”

Clarke is confused, “What?”

“You were violent, so we had to sedate you. On a scale of one to ten, how angry do you feel?”

 _“What?”_ Because she heard the question. Of course she did. But, how is one supposed to rate their pain? What kind a question was that?

He looks up, and his face is getting clearer by the second, his voice is a bit exasperated, “How angry do you feel, on a scale of one to ten? One being the least angry.”

She looks at him incredulously, “Like a…five?”

He smiles, a nasty, patronizing smile, “Okay,” and gets up, “We’ll need to watch you closely in solitary for a couple of hours, and then you can go back to your room. Okay? Okay.”

With disbelief, she watches him leave the room.

\---

It’s honestly as if she’s not in the real world. It’s odd to think that while she’s closed off from everyone she cares about, the world outside is going on without her. They let her out of solitary and she rejoins the rest of the hospital, sits in the cafeteria for lunch by herself, and when it’s time to take her medicine she refuses.

“No,” Clarke tells the young woman firmly, who looks about nervously, stuck in the doorway of Clarke’s room.

“Um,” her pin reads Maya, “You have to take the medicine. It says on your chart that if you don’t we have to inject it,” she looks down, “And that’s…you know…”

Clarke stares her down for several second, enough to make the girl squirm, before taking the paper cup in her hand, along with the plastic cup of water. A few more seconds go by, and Maya meekly comments, “I have to make sure you take it…”

With a grim frown, Clarke puts both cups to her lips, one after the other, and swallows. She crumples them up and slams them on Maya’s moving tray. The girl jumps, whimpers slightly, and moves along.

She closes the door, spits the pills in her hand. None of them look familiar, and she absently wishes Finn or Jasper or Monty were here to help her figure it out. The boys know their drugs. Instead, she flushes them down the toilet, takes a moment to finally walk about the room.

There is a bed, a desk, and a set of drawers. The suitcase her mother packed is still on the floor next to her bed, and she hauls in on top, unzips it.

It is stuffed to the brim with clothing, disheveled, and Clarke knows it is because they check every suitcase for unpermitted objects. She gets to the bottom and there is a sketch pad, an old one from her room, filled with work from her first years of high school. The current one is in her messenger bag at home, but her mother wouldn’t know that. Luckily, there are a few blank pages at the end.

There is a book, as well, and Clarke almost laughs out loud at the irony. Sure, it was her favorite at one point, and her father’s. Clarke wonders briefly if any of his other books were saved. _Waiting for Godot_ very much broke her as a kid, she was around twelve when she read it. The thought is nice, maybe, but the irony of holding the play that hurled her into an existential crisis at thirteen made her want to throw it to the floor. Abby is an idiot.

Nevertheless, she presses it to her chest, because it’s worn, a first edition, and her dad looked concerned and understanding when she asked him what the point of doing her homework when there was no point to life.

She snorts and runs her fingers over the worn pages.

\---

The first person she calls is Bellamy.

“Clarke?” his voice is desperate, tense, deep and sure and amazing in her ear, and at it relief runs through her, all through her, she actually laughs/sobs, no just sobs. Right into the phone, in front of orderlies, nurses, other patients snorting and staring. In the background she hears noise, shouting, Raven demanding to speak with her, Bellamy telling her to shut the fuck up.

“Clarke? Clarke, breathe.” he says again, and she takes a deep breath.

The only thing she can think to say is, _“I love you,”_ but that doesn’t come out, she takes deep breathes.

“One more day--” he tries to assure her, but Clarke bits her lip and shakes her head, even if he can’t see it.

“Plans changed,” she tells him, voice empty. There is a pause, so she continues, “My mom lied. She got the court order placed before she came to get me. I can’t leave until…”

“Until what?” he voice is hard, trying to cover the tremble of anger and sadness.

Clarke shrugs, even though, again, he cannot see it, “I don’t know. I convince them that I’m okay.”

“Are you okay?”

The question is complex. The simple answer is no. She is not okay. She’s pissed, feels like a prisoner, feels like the walls are closing in and she can’t breathe.

“I miss you,” she mumbles, because that’s what people say in this situation, and she does miss him so much it actually hurts. Physical pain. Funny how that can happen, “My mom gave them a specific list of people that are allowed to visit me. I’ll try to get out on it.”

\---

It doesn’t happen until two days later. They realize she isn’t taking the medication because they see her spit the pills into her hand. She’s forced to take the pills, and Clarke is asleep in her room for so long, she wakes up in the middle of the day. She drags herself to the nurse’s station, where Maya is seated. The girl smiles at her warily.

“I need a couple of people added to my visitor’s list,” Clarke says, trying to uphold the fear Maya has for her, but it comes out slightly sleepy, she’s blinking her eyes to stay awake, feeling loopy.

Maya laughs nervously, “I’m sorry, I can’t—um. You’ll have to talk to your doctor about that.”

Clarke squeezes her eyes shut tight in frustration. She hates Cage Wallace. The man barely listens to her, scribbles away on his notepad during their fifteen minutes sessions, smiles like a razor, she can see her reflection in his hair.

So, she tries another approach, “Look. Look, Maya? That’s not going to work, can’t you just…” she raises her eyebrows expectedly, and Maya shakes her head, a flurry of dark hair.

“No, nononono. I can’t, I can get fired—“

 _“Maya,”_ She might have said it a bit too harshly, because the girl pales (if white could get any whiter), so Clarke clears her throat, “Maya. Look, I know it’s a big risk, but,” she racks her brain, because she will go crazy (the irony) in this place if she doesn’t see him, “I really need to see this person, okay? Just one person.”

Maya looks around a bit, and Clarke panic, because she can tell that she’s looking for an orderly—

“Maya, have you ever been in love?” Clarke blurts out.

The girl turns back at her slowly, cheeks pink, eyes wide, “Um…”

Clarke continues, and in her drowsy state, she must seem even crazier, and part of her doesn’t even know what she’s getting at, “I have. And it sucks. It’s actually pretty horrible. Expect for when it’s not? Not horrible. Then, it’s amazing. You feel like…like you’re floating. Like, you’re _high_. It’s actually scientifically proven that being in love produces the same chemicals in your brain as some drugs…”

“Uhh….”

“Look,” Clarke takes a deep breath, aware she is talking in circles, but so fucked up she can’t quite stop, “What I’m saying is, it’s really hard not being with someone you love. Being here is not easy. And, being away from him is not easy. So, I’m having a very hard time. _I’m having a very hard time.”_ She looks down, and runs her fingers through her hair, breath shaking.

Maya is silent for a moment before she leans in and whispers, “What’s his name?”

\---

Bellamy wraps her in his arms and for the first time in several days, she feels safe. The medicine has made her so numb and impossibly drowsy.

He pulls away to look at her face, large, warm, hands cradling her cheeks. She tries to reassure him with a smile, and when he says her name so sad and tender she looks away, unable to focus.

“Jesus. What are they giving you?”

She snorts in laughs, and it’s enough, even with the circumstance, to make him chuckle as well.

They sit in the alcove, a large glass window behind them, snowfall outside. His hand brushes her hair away from her face (she knows it’s mussed from sleeping all day). There are comfortable slippers on her feet, she’s in his sweatshirt. He’s brought her a letter from Octavia, that cardigan of Finn’s she’s always liked but he never let her borrow for too long. And it’s completely cheesy but being wrapped in something that belongs to someone else makes her feel safe. Something about familiarity.

“I’ve got to get you out of here,” he mutters, untangling knots in her blonde strands.

Clarke struggles to keep her eyes open, “Hmm.”

“So. How’d you do it? Get me on the list.”

“Had to trick Maya.”

“Maya?”

She looks around almost lazily, spying Maya at the nurse’s station, sipping on tea. “Nurse. The young one,” Clarke waves a bit, and groans quietly, because Maya is coming over, maybe a bit excited, and she says, under her breath, “shit.”

“Is this him?” she asks nervously, a smile on her face, hands wringing as her eye flint around.

There is an awkward silence and Clarke breaks it by smiling (maybe too wide), “Maya. This is my fiancé, Bellamy,” she turns to meet his face (it’s amused, too frozen, his eyebrows are raised like _excuse me?_ ) and she can’t help but smirk a little because he’s so blindsided.

There is tense moment where Bellamy narrows his eyes at her, but then he looks at Maya with a cheesy, charming smile (one that almost mocks Finn’s) and holds out his hand. Clarke almost bursts into laughter.

“Fiancé?” he mentions when Maya walks away, he cocks his head and the corner of his mouth lifts just slightly, just in that way she loves, “Are you even my girlfriend, yet?”

Clarke rolls her eyes and leans into him, “I had to exaggerate a little. We’re star-crossed lovers.”

“Can she get me on the medical release?”

 “That’s all Wallace. Creepy doctor,” she clarifies.

Bellamy stiffens beside her, and she knows about his fears, Aurora was in less savoy places with less savoy people, “Did he try anything? I’ll kill him.”

Clarke turns to him, eyes dazed. His expression is concerned and deadly serious. Yeah, he will. She smiles and touches her hand to kiss cheek, “Kiss me.”

He does, hot and tender and sweet and a little short, leans his forehead against hers. If she closes her eyes, she can pretend they aren’t where they are. His sweatshirt has been in the wash, so it no longer smells like him. Clarke takes a moment to breathe him in and memorize the scent of his shampoo, deodorant, soap, and a musky undertone that’s all him. She slides her fingers to touch the soft hair at the nape of his neck, and really does think she can go to sleep this way. The moment is, unfortunately, short lived when they hear her name being called.

The both turn. It’s Wells. She is glad to see another familiar face. Bellamy, however, is not. Which confuses her, and yes, life outside of this place is going on without her. She feels somewhat selfish for not realizing the extent of that.

(How is Monty? She hopes he doesn’t blame himself for that night she left the bar. Did Finn ever admit that he’s still in love with Raven? Did he let her go? Is Lexa still staying at her house? Did her mother start wearing the engagement ring Clarke found in the velvet box on her dresser? She’s so lethargic.)

He stands up almost immediately, body tense and ready, fist clenched, mouth set in a vicious line, “Well, well, _look who it is_. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were avoiding me, Wells.”

The dark-skinned boy puts his hands in his pockets, raises his chin, eyes harder than Clarke has ever seen them, ever, “There’s nothing to say—“

“Oh, really?” Bellamy is louder now, and Clarke realizes it. He’s probably more pissed than she is. At Wells, for some reason, but also at the whole situation. The mask that is barely containing him has slipped. Clarke sees frustration, tight, angry lines in his body, she reaches for his sleeve, but grabs air, because Bellamy is starting toward him, now, drawing the attention of orderlies who are looking from a distance, “How about, _sorry for not mentioning Abby slapped Clarke with a court order and lied about it!_ ”

“I had no idea—“

Bellamy throws his head back and laughs, “I really hate liars, Wells. Really _fucking_ them. So you give me one, _truthful_ reason, why I shouldn’t _knock your fucking teeth out_.”

Clarke gets up, because this is getting bad, but maybe a bit too fast, because she starts swaying on her feet, she vision blurs, and Bellamy is there to catch her when she faints, so she doesn’t hit the ground.

\---

She wakes up with an I-V in her arm, feeling better, and when she looks around there is a white-haired man in Cage’s chair, looking at her with concern.

“Bellamy…” is what comes out of her mouth before she can stop it.

He smiles, placating, “We had to send him away. You know, I was wondering how on Earth he got on your visitor’s list. Can you help me figure it out?”

She pauses, doesn’t answer, instead, _“Who the fuck are you?”_

The old man’s eyebrow raises quickly, and he sighs, “Dr. Dante Wallace. My son was handling your care while I was away. How about another question, Clarke. Why aren’t you eating?”

Clarke raises her eyebrows. Oh. That was why she fainted. That’s why the I-V. Between sleeping most of the day, she forgot to eat. When was the last time she had a meal?

“I guess it slipped my mind. I’ve been sleeping a lot.”

He lifts her chart, begins taking notes, “Well, that’s no problem. I’m going to decrease your medication.”

“By how much?”

“About half.”

Clarke scans his old, kind face. He seems like a good doctor. Better than his son. His eyes are benevolent. But she still says, voice deadly calm, “Let me out of here tomorrow or I’ll sue. Negligence.”

His pen stops abruptly, and he looks up. The look on his face is odd, part respect, part indignation, part amusement, “You _are_ resourceful, aren’t you, Miss Griffin?” Her gaze does not waver in the slightest, so after a moment, Dante Wallace sighs, “Clarke. You don’t participate in therapy, or any of the other groups. You don’t _eat_. For the first several days you refused to take medication. It’s hard to claim our care is negligent if you haven’t been participating in it. It’s also hard when there is no proof.”

Clarke’s mouth goes tight and she chuckles, sans humor, and nastily, says, “You know? You’re not that different from your son.”

Something falls in Wallace’s face.

\---

She starts to attend group activities the next morning. Apparently, there are three a day. Who knew? With her medication decreased, there is a sense of overwhelming normalcy around her. She does not feel sleepy, and it is not bad or good. It’s a bit longing, bit numbness. It’s a bit odd.

There is a bout of morning yoga, and apparently, the one year of excessively drinking and smoking pot makes it hard to stick poses. She’s sweating by the end, takes a shower and eats a big breakfast. She’s lost weight since being here, probably about five or so pounds, and only realizes how fucking hungry she is (ravenous, really) when she’s scarfing down her breakfast and the wide-eyed woman next to her pushes her tray toward Clarke in a bit of fear.

The afternoon is split into two sections. She’s signed up for an alcohol and narcotics meeting. It’s a little much, she thinks, but then a private meeting makes her question things.

“How often do you drink?”

Clarke sighs, “I don’t know? Couple times a week.”

“Hard liquor?”

She grits her teeth, “Yeah. I guess.”

“Do you drink to get drunk?”

She gives the director a very deadpanned, “Yes. Sloppily _. Thank you_.”

“Other drugs?”

Clarke sits back in her seat with a sigh.

Next is a group therapy session. Clarke is seated with a couple of other adults in a room. A smiling woman thanks her for joining them. Clarke doesn’t even lift her eyes.

But, when she is asked to tell everyone the reason she’s here, she makes a decision. Arms crossed, Clarke launches into it, head bowed. She avoids the gazes from the rest of the group, avoids the kind, soft gazes from the therapist leading the session. She is a woman of Indian descent, lush dark hair and smooth skin. “I came home after a night out with friends. I was a little upset—“

“Why?” a girl to her left asks, she thinks her name is Monroe, and Clarke looks at her warily, before the therapist clarifies.

“In group we encourage members to ask questions and hold each other accountable.”

Clarke narrows her eyes, “Okay. Well, my friends said they were worried about me. I just got thinking that they were talking about me, that I was still this burden. The same messed up person, and even after leaving for school and coming back everyone was still…I don’t know. So I left. Went home, and I went to my dad’s study, because…” she trails off, shrugging.

“Like so you could talk to him about it, or something?” the same girl offers.

Clarke glares at her, icy and cold when she says, “My dad’s dead. He hanged himself in his study about a year ago.”

There is an awkward moment when the girl stares at her hands, mumbles, “Sorry.”

She shakes her head and shrugs, “It’s fine.”

“Is it?” the therapist asks, more a statement than a question, and Clarke looks up, meeting her intensely interested gaze.

\---

Recreation is just them sitting in a game room, Clarke tries so hard to sketch the lines of her dad’s face by memory, she wishes he were here so she could dot out every hair on his five o’clock shadow, shade the unique light in his eyes. Her stick of coal stops dead on the page, wavers. Her eyes well with tears.

_Is it?_

Of course it isn’t, it’s not fucking okay. She lets the charcoal and sketchpad drop on the door, bury her head in her hands. The couch next to her dips.

“Hey, Clarke,” Maya’s soft voice floats in her ear, and she picks up her head, rubs away tears quickly.

“What, Maya?”

She hesitates, biting her lip nervously, and when she appears to gain the courage, “Wow. You’re so talented. Who is that?” she points to the floor.

Instead of answering, Clarke turns to her, cheek resting on her fist, tone so abrasive, “Aren’t you like, seventeen? How are you even a nurse?”

Startled, Maya answers, stuttering, “I’m eighteen. I was…homeschooled most of my life. Um. I…I graduated a couple of years early and I’m actually a nursing assistant,” she nods, trying to smile, “My mom died when I was really little. My dad was really strict.”

Clarke looks down at the picture, her pain dull and aching, tracing the smudged lines with her eyes, “That’s my dad,” she looks at Maya so deeply, the girl looks a bit uncomfortable, but she doesn’t look away, “Does it get better? Because I feel like I am _dying._ Like it was yesterday. And it’s been like a year and it hasn’t gotten better. And now I’m here,” she smiles sardonically, laughs like a sob, “I’m here.”

For a moment she just closes her eyes and wills away the last year. Wills away every little ounce of pain she’s feeling. But, she feels like there isn’t enough therapy or drugs or love in the world to make her forget it.

“It does get better. It’s different. It hurts less, but you still miss them,” Maya says quietly.

“Do you hurt less?” Clarke asks quietly.

Maya shrugs, “Yeah. Most of the time I feel okay. Sometimes I get sad.”

“How long has it been?”

Maya looks down at her hands. So, a while.

\---

It is Christmas Day, and her mother comes to visit her. She brings in a present that is re-wrapped.

“They had to inspect it,” her mother clarifies.

In the frame is a photo of a past Christmas, her family (real family). Her father’s smiling face, her mother looking at him fondly, a five year-old girl with no idea that her life is going to be destroyed.

She sets it down on the table in front of her silently, “Where’s Wells?”

“He’s spending the day with Thelonious,” Abby looks down at the picture, “How are you?”

Clarke stares at her incredulously, and then runs a hand through her hair, “Mom…”

“I know you’re angry. I know what I did was dishonest, but I am your _mother_ , and I—“

“Mom, look—“

“I just don’t want you—“

 _“Mom.”_ And for the first time in a long time, Clarke looks at her, past the perfectly curled hair, flawless makeup, and sees the red-rimmed eyes and bags. Clarke puts a hand over hers, and Abby looks up in surprise.

“I’m sorry. For the…um. The study. For running off like that, and worrying you, because that wasn’t okay.”

Abby takes a shaky breath, and grips her hand, “Thank you—“

“But you were wrong.”

She frowns, “Excuse—“

Clarke stares at her, eyes wide. “You didn’t kill Dad. He literally…um,” she wipes at the tears in her eyes, “He literally like, killed himself. But you…” she shrugs, tears flowing freely now, “It’s obvious that it was easier for you to get over him. And that’s _fine_. It wasn’t fair for me to judge you for that. But, I found him, okay? And you were _wrong_ to push me to get better, to act like everything was okay, and normal. To expect me to get the image of him hanging from the ceiling out of my head in a _couple of months_.”

Abby starts to nod, straightening her shoulders, “Clarke, I know that it might seem this way now--”

Clarke frowns, shakes her head incredulously, fiercely, “No. You don’t. You didn’t think about how it would make me feel. Only that _you_ had to move on. And you were forcing me to move on too, and that’s not right. It’s not fair. I…I need you to _know that_.”

Her mother is holding back tears, and then grabs her other hand tightly, “I’m sorry. You’re right. It was unfair. I know that. I wanted to help.”

“No one can help me,” Clarke says, voice thick, “Not you, not this place, not…” she trails off, and from the look on her mother’s face she knows.

Abby clears her throat, and tries to change the subject, she tries to be bright, but her watery eyes ruin it, “You’re coming home tomorrow,” Clarke raises her eyebrows, “I’ll pick you up, and we can talk more—“

 “I don’t want to go with you,” Clarke says suddenly, “That place is not my home. Not sure if I have one.”

The air between them grows thick and heavy, and Abby withdraws her hands, places them in her lap. Clarke only takes a moment to grasp the empty space there before leaning back.

“Do you really feel that way?” Abby asks quietly.

She nods slowly, “I’ll have Bellamy pick me up. I can get my stuff later.”

Her mother’s face slates over, “I see. Will you be staying with Freya and Antoine?”

And her neck words are so telling she almost blushes in embarrassment, “Um. I guess. That or, at his apartment. Where he is, I’ll…be.”

Abby breaths out softly, and when she looks at her daughter, it’s sad, accepting, “Well, it seems that you do have a home, after all.” Clarke knows it’s not completely over, but it’s a start. A start is all she really needs. A future that’s not bleak and angry. Something that tells her things are going to be alright, not know, not soon, but eventually. Maya’s promise, her mother’s apology, Bellamy’s bite on her collarbone. She’ll take any of those.

When they say goodbye, Clarke stops her, body tense and tone careful, “Um. Mom. The books? His books. And the globe?”

After a few seconds, Abby’s sigh is a sob, unleashing something heavy and sad in her. She shakes her head, “Clarke. I would never throw his things away.” She lets her mother embrace her tightly. And maybe she doesn’t pull away first, who knows.

\---

“Hey, Jailbird,” Bellamy calls to her, leaning against his truck, arms cross, smirk covering up the cycle of emotions Clarke knows are rolling over each other. His hands are stuck in his coat, there is snow in his hair.

She stops outside the entrance, trying not to smile, trying to pretend her heart isn’t beating rapidly, “That’s only marginally better than Princess.”

He acts wounded as he walks toward her, languidly, as if two weeks is nothing. But Clarke lifts her chin. Because when feelings aren’t at stake, his (their) games? They are sort of fun. When he reaches her he cocks his head, taking her in with care, eyes darting over her form.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, words careless, tone not. “Miss me—“

He kisses her before she finishes her sentence, grabs her by the waist and pulls her flush against him, and Clarke smiles (grins, really) against his mouth, because she _won_.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter before the epilogue, I'm serious this time. (No, really) Next chapter will be a Wells and Bellamy chapter. 
> 
> Also, if you're suffering from a mental illness, feeling suicidal, depressed, anxious, there are many ways to get better, but, please get help. Talk to someone you trust.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wells Jaha is still hard to hate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not even going to make any promises about this story, anymore. It ends when it ends.
> 
> Trigger warnings (!!!) hospitalization, alcohol and drug abuse, slight violence (a punch).

Bellamy spends the first several days of Clarke’s admission at a Never-Ending Party in Finn Collin’s house.

Because life cannot get any more fucked up.

Truth be told, he really had planned on drinking his way through those three days, playing some of his mother’s old records, and plotting Wells Jaha’s death. The entire thing was planned out, and he’d started after Clarke’s car disappeared, not even a tiny speck of black left. He drags his heavy feet into the shower and spends about an hour with warm water threading through his hair and down the tense cords in his back. When he walks downstairs, hair wet and skin wrinkled, Jasper and Octavia are dressed to go out, jeans and coats on. Bellamy says nothing as he heads to the kitchen.

He’s about to pour himself a drink, but then Octavia takes the bottle from him and sets it down on the counter because she’s annoying.

Bellamy looks at her expectedly.

“We’re going to Finn’s.”

He rolls his eyes, continues to pour.

Octavia takes the bottle once more, “You can drink once we get there.”

His face must be one of discontent (he likes to think so), because Octavia starts to talk about how they should all be together, blah blah, support system, _blah blah_ , and she looks so earnest that Bellamy actually goes with them. And that’s how he ends up at a Never-Ending Party.

Bellamy hates Finn (okay, not really, it’s a severe dislike). He can’t stand the pretentious fucker. But, if there’s one thing Bellamy admires about the young man it’s his ability to throw a party. Bellamy has to admit. He’s good. Really good. His timing, though? It’s complete shit.

He stays pretty sober, oddly enough, because even though he had a fucking _plan,_ it’s easier to watch Octavia that way, and there’s something cathartic about watching people get tragically shitfaced, disator happening all around them. Bellamy has called Wells about fifteen times in that one day, left him several death threats, retreating to Finn’s several (but oddly enough, not excessive, like some of the houses in the neighborhood) rooms in order to make calls. He’s almost always interrupted by a couple looking for a place to fuck, which makes him oddly sad, okay?

\---

Never-Ending Party seems to actually mean never-ending. When the sun comes up, almost everyone is passed out in various parts of the house. Bellamy has gotten a horrible sleep by breaking into Finn’s parent’s room. He sleeps on the day bed against the wall because there is a sex swing set up above the bed and that really makes him uncomfortable.  

He makes coffee in the kitchen. There a girl with red hair stirring, lifting her head from the table. She looks up at him with eyes so bleary Bellamy pours her a cup. She smiles shakily at him.

There are people everywhere, asleep on the floor, half-clothed, drooling, drugged. He sort of worries someone might be dead as he steps carefully over them. When he finally reaches the seventies-style conversation pit, his sister and their friends are sprawled about. This makes him cringe a little, because the area is so plush, throw pillows everywhere, and Bellamy is certain Finn’s parents have orgies there.

He shrugs Octavia awake. She lifts her head from where it is resting on Jasper’s lap. Her legs are in Monty’s, who is all but curled against Nathan Miller. On the other side, Finn is sprawled out, Raven’s head tucked into his chest. There is a burning joint dangling between his fingers.

She gulped the coffee down in one go, despite the fact that he knows it is burning hot. She rises to her feet, mumbling about a shower.

“Support system,” Bellamy calls mockingly after her, and she flicks him off over her shoulder.

He sighs, and when he turns around, Finn is up and staring at him with alert eyes.

Bellamy almost starts, _God,_ what a fucking _weirdo_.

“Can’t fall asleep at your own party,” Finn clarifies, taking a long drag of his spliff, sort of incredulously, like, duh, Bellamy should know this, _come on_. He threads the other hand through Raven’s ponytail absently, looking completely awake, and Bellamy cocks an eyesbrow.

“Which is going to last…how long, exactly?”

The boy shrugs a little, “It’s over when it’s over,” he says simply, ambiguously.

\---

Day two gets wilder. The music is louder, and Bellamy retreats to the roof, where Monty joins him shortly after. Bellamy is bundled in his coat, phone to his ear. He swears, because that fucking little shit, when he sees Wells Jaha that motherfucker is _dead._ He has to grip his phone tight in order to stop himself from throwing it off the roof.

“You look stressed,” Monty says, helpfully, and holds out a slim joint.

Bellamy normally doesn’t smoke pot, not anymore. But, okay, he is a little stressed. So it takes the offered joint from Monty and inhales.

He pauses. Exhales.

Bellamy raises an eyebrow, “You grew this?”

A grin breaks out on Monty’s face, and he nods enthusiastically.

He gives the boy a quick, searching look, because yeah, alright, he’s impressed, “Not bad.”

They stay like that for a while, Monty bundled up in a thick blanket. He says suddenly, drowsily, “It’s my fault,” and Bellamy just frowns.

“I was sort of mean. I didn’t want to be, but—“

“Monty,” Bellamy cuts him off, perhaps a little loudly, sort of annoyed, because he’s sick of playing fucking therapists to these kids and if they really want to clear their consciences they should find a fucking priest.

But then he looks over a miserable little Monty with his face poking out of a small hole in the blanket, and he can’t stop himself from groaning. “She was fucked up before you said anything. Will probably be fucked up when she comes back. Nothing you did,” he inhales once more, lets thick, fragrant smoke curl around him, “Nothing you can do.”

Monty nods a little, “Okay.”

\---

Its day three. She’s supposed to be coming back and she hasn’t even called, and now they’re all officially worried. Guests at the party are having the time of their lives, it’s gotten even bigger.

“Shut the fuck up!” Bellamy bellows, and the music stops abruptly. Raven is at his side, immediately, running her mouth, but all he can hear is Clarke crying, sobs craving something deep and sad into his chest.

And all he can think is _fuck._

Raven doesn’t even try to protest as he snatches the bottle of whiskey from her hand and takes several gulps. It burns. Burns like hell. And it also makes him feel slightly better.

\---

What doesn’t, however, is actually, finally, seeing Wells Jaha. Wells motherfucking Jaha. Who, oddly enough, is really fucking easy to hate at the moment.

One minute he’s kissing the girl he’s wanted for months and the next moment he’s catching her before she cracks her skull on the ground. Maya the Friendly Nurse is by his side immediately, calling for the medical team, and he’s pushed aside, isolated with Wells while he hears mummers of her not eating in days. He watches, chest fucking sliced open, as they check her eyes and wheel her away.

“Clarke?!” Wells calls after her, running as far as he can before Maya stops him, tells him he’s not allowed in. He retreats, turning around and facing Bellamy with a grim, guilty look on his face. The kid looks utterly broken, sort of how Bellamy feels, and he thinks to that first day he shook hands with Wells and how he insisted he wasn’t in love with the girl Bellamy was trying not be in love with.

They stare each other down for a second. The moment, perhaps, is really not the best time to punch Wells in the face, but he does anyway, ever controlled by his emotions. Fuck it.

And he doesn’t regret it when the security throws him out.

Only regrets it when later on he calls and they can’t even tell him if she’s awake, because somehow, they’ve figured out the error on her visitor’s list. Shocker.

And so? He takes a mad trip to the hole-in-the-wall bar in the city, not far from his apartment. Roma has a knowing look in her eye when he sits at a stool. She chuckles a little, pours him a whiskey, neat, and says, “So, Princess broke your heart.”

Bellamy shrugs, “Not exactly,” he pushes the empty glass toward her. She refills it with a smirk.

“So…not exactly _broken up_ —“

“Not exactly together.”

 _“Not exactly together!”_ she clicks her tongue, leaning forward seductively. His eyes drop to her chest, not even attempting to hide his blatant stare. She tosses long hair over her shoulder, “That’s interesting.” Bellamy looks back up, and she has a flirty little grin on her face as she walks down to bar to pour more drinks.

He shakes his head, thinks of something bad.

Drinks later, all he can think of is her pale and sleepy, nodding off, melting into his chest, her drugged little smile and unfocused eyes. Her passed out and the medical staff commenting on her lack of nutrition.

All he can think of is visiting his mom in the same position, Octavia’s hand holding his in a vice grip, eighteen and lost and trying to keep things together. Now, he feels even more helpless. Because then, he had someone to take care of, something to do. Octavia hasn’t needed him for a while, so he’s stuck. And all he wants to do it _forget_ how fucking _shitty_ he feels.

Which is how he ends up in the stockroom of the bar pressed up against Roma.

Because okay, Clarke and him aren’t technically together. Not really. She might have lied and called him her fiancé, but that wasn’t true. He wasn’t even sure if he was her _boyfriend._

Wow. And now he feels like a total girl, like, _what are we?_

Again, yes. Horrible idea. His hands move up her ass and to her waist. But, she’s tall and lean, not as soft as Clarke, not as curvy. Doesn’t feel perfect and amazing in his arm, pliant. Her hands don’t tug at his hair like Clarke’s do, as if trying to get him impossibly close, not satisfied until their clothes are off and they are skin to skin, until he’s inside her. It’s not the same, (and fuck, even if he wanted to forget her, couldn’t do it), and then he thinks, _what the fuck am I doing?_ It’ll always be her.

He pushes Roma away firmly, rolling his eyes, “I can’t.”

There is a pause, and Roma actually laughs, “Okay, _what?_ Is this some kind of joke?” She gestured to herself, topless, statuesque, _ready._

“I fucking love her,” he shrugs, definitely drunk, and really? Doesn’t even sound as dumb as he thought it would, saying it out loud like that, “Sorry.”

Roma looks at him, incredulously, and then picks her shirt off the floor, “Fucking unbelievable,” and pushes past him out of the door.

He goes to another bar. Gets kicked out after picking a fight. Walks in the cold because there is no way he’s driving home like this. Ends up taking a taxi. When asked where he wants to go, before he knows it, he’s taking the cab back to Finn’s house. Because, yeah. After this shit day? After being so close, so far? A support system could be really nice.

The party rages on for the fifth or sixth night, he can’t remember, and Bellamy stumbles to the door. Octavia is immediately at his side, the excited look on her face disappears when she sees him, so he knows he must look like shit.

“Bellamy?” she says his name in the tentative voice of his that reminds him of her as a kid, small and helpless.

He can’t bear to look at her (also, focusing his really hard in his drunken state) so he looks up and connects eyes with Finn Collins, who takes one look at him and starts yelling, “Hey! _Hey!_ Party’s over!”

\---

The Never-Ending Party actually has an end.

In the morning (afternoon, really, because Octavia sets him up in a room and he passes out for like half a day) they sit in the conversation pit, which is actually really comfortable, but Bellamy tries not to think about Finn’s hippie parents having swinger parties.

Instead, he concentrates on how pissed he is, wills the over-the-counter painkillers to start kicking it. Finn offered something stronger, and Bellamy had given him a firm, _“fuck no.”_

In the end, they decide to talk to Wells, take a trip over to his dad’s house. Bellamy, of course, would be going. Wells had an extremely strong aversion to Finn, obviously. Jasper and Monty weren’t mean enough to use force. Octavia was too likely to do so (the two of them together were a good team if you were alright with Bellamy pinning back the boy’s arms and Octavia taking punches to his gut).

Raven, though. She is the perfect source of fear and respect for Wells.

So he ends up driving with Raven Reyes to Senator Jaha’s house.

Not his choice of company. Finn was annoying, but at least he didn’t hate Bellamy.

Raven on the other hand?

“I don’t hate you, you know.”

Oh. Well.

Raven makes a little thoughtful noise, “I mean, you’re a total asshole. But the only contact I’ve ever really had with you was like, revenge sex, and as fucked up as you were for that, it takes two, or more, to fuck, so. Eh.”

Okay?

“And I don’t approve of you and Clarke. Not by a long shot. You’re like chocolate. Tastes so good, but _so bad for you_ —“

Bellamy clears his throat, “You got a point, Reyes?”

“Yeah. Point is, I can’t control what Clarke does. But, she’s really into you. It was obvious, you know, from day one. And you care about her, that’s obvious too, otherwise you wouldn’t be doing this. So you get _one more shot_. You fuck this up? I fuck you up. Got it?”

He glances over at her, just for a second, remembers his similar speech to Jasper, and then nods, once, “Yeah.”

They arrive at the tall gate, and upon meeting the security guard, Raven leans over with one of her dazzling smiles.

"Hey! Happy holidays! Could you tell Wells that Raven’s here?”

She doesn’t mention him. Good.

They give the keys to the valet and for the first time in a long time he takes in the expansive grounds of the Jahas’ mansion. He remembers walking in with an arm around Octavia’s shoulders. They were stiff in clothing that didn’t belong to them, shoulders taunt under stares and whispers. Still broken kids without a mom, nothing more than that.

And then their grandmother introduced them to Abby Griffin and her daughter.

He remembers meeting Clarke for the first time. Blue-eyed, in lace, hair curled perfectly, eyes sad, her humor self-depreciating. He remembers Clarke and Octavia twirling around, drunk and barefoot in the grass. He remembers pulling her close, wanting to kiss her. She walked away with Finn and he thought, _trouble,_ almost at the same time another part of him thought, _I want her._ It almost makes him chuckle.

They give away their coats and are lead to a drawing room. And then. Really?

Wells looks up, grim when he sees Bellamy, his eye is still black, and he can’t even think about that.

“What the fuck is she doing here?” Raven demands, gesturing to Lexa.

Who, of course, is sitting cross-legged and glaring at him with that steely stare. She opens her mouth to speak, but Raven cuts her off—

“You open your mouth, and I’m going to put my fist inside.”

Bellamy decides that he actually likes Raven. She reminds him of Octavia, in a lot of ways.

Wells turns to Lexa, “Give us a minute, please.”

They connects eyes, freakily, for a second, and Lexa gets up, smoothly walks past Raven, who rolls her eyes, hesitating for a minute, but she seems to give into her impulses, because she follows Lexa out with a swear, hands bundled into fists.

Wells sighs, tiredly. Fuck that.

“Oh, you’re tired?” Bellamy starts, taking short steps to him, “Want me to come back after you nap? Then we can talk about how you fucked Clarke over?”

Wells seems as if he’s had enough, because the young man stands, knocks over the coffee he and Lexa were drinking and crosses the room to him, “I’m sick of this. You think I want this? You think I wanted this? Like I had any control?”

Bellamy scoffs, “Well, you certainly didn’t give us any heads-up.”

“I’m trying my best!” Wells raises his voice, fed up, “I’m trying my best. I’m trying to help her, I’m doing what’s right, what’s good for her—“

“—you don’t know what’s good for her!” Bellamy shots back, “You live this sheltered little life, where you haven’t had to _deal_ with anything, so when things get tough, you don’t know what to do!  You have no _idea_ what’s good for her.”

“Oh, and you do?” Wells exhales, disbelievingly.

“Yeah, maybe I do. You think you can put her in a hospital and give her tons of medication, but sometimes, that doesn’t _fucking_ work. Sometimes it’s more than giving someone drugs and putting them in therapy, sometimes they’re just fucked up and you have to love them anyway.  You try to fix it, but sometimes, there’s no _fixing it._ It just _is.”_ He thinks about loving his mom despite all the hell she put them through. Loving her anyway.

Wells actually looks hurt, but Bellamy can’t bring himself to feel bad until he starts mumbling.

“What was that?” Bellamy asks, quietly, because he really wants to hate Wells.

“She’s like a sister to me,” Wells says louder, then swallows, looking everywhere but Bellamy, “She’s always been like a sister to me, I just. I just want her to be okay, again.”

Fuck. Fucking Wells.

So hard to hate.

“Then help me get her out. You saw her there. She wasn’t eating.”

Wells looks at him, alarmed, “What?”

“That’s why she fainted. When I talked to her, she was so fucked up, she could barely stay awake.”

Wells walks back and sinks into the chair, at a loss for words. Finally he speaks, “I don’t know…I…Abby’s the only one who can do something about it.”

Bellamy crosses his arms impatiently.

Wells sits up, as if he’s made a decision. There is sad resolve in his eyes, “I’ll handle it.”

The look on his face must look wary, because Wells repeats, firmly, “I’ll handle it.”

He opens his mouth to speak again, but then he hears shouting outside. And remembers Raven is out there with Lexa. Wells blanches.

\---

Christmas sucks.

He spends Christmas Eve at a mandatory ball in Jaha’s house. The lights are glittering and beautiful, Octavia dances with Jasper under them, her beaded, bottle-green dress glittering. He thinks about last Christmas, where he slaved to get Octavia those shoes she wouldn’t shut up about, and their mom was nowhere to be found until two days later. He’d cooked a tiny chicken in their shitty stove, drink cheap champagne and they stayed up until morning, like every Christmas, opened their gifts together. He wasn’t expecting her to get him anything, but she’d gotten him a hardback copy of one of his favorite books. He loved it.

Things have changed. Utterly. He chuckled as he gulps down a glass of champagne that probably cost more than all the Christmas presents he’s ever gotten his sister. He sets it down on a passing tray, and feels the hair standing up at the back of his neck.

Bellamy turns around and Abby Griffin is staring daggers at him.

He narrows his eyes. And flicks her off, completely mature. Then leaves.

\---

Later he’s being shaken awake. It’s Octavia, still dressed in her ball gown, hair still falling in waves. She has a smile on her face, “You fell asleep!” she points out, a little annoyed, “It’s not even 3 am, yet! God, you’re so _old_.”

Bellamy stares at her for a minute before laughing, genuinely, like he hasn’t in a while, and they stay up until they can see the dark disappear from the sky.

\---

Not even a few days later she’s back in his arms, and even though he gave in first and he can feel a cheeky little smile against his lips, he doesn’t even care. Really. It feels so good. She feels so good.

He lifts her things in the back.

“Glad that’s over,” Clarke says, surprisingly calm about being held against her will in a behavioral hospital for two weeks. She’s holding onto a plastic bag. He asks her what it is, and she rolls her eyes, “Pills. They gave me thirty days-worth. I’m not going to take them. I don’t even think they’re the fun kind.”

“Finn and Jasper’ll take them anyway.”

She laughs, and then turns to him. He takes a moment to looks at her, blonde hair, face devoid of makeup, still looking a little tired, but. Maybe? Wells might have been right too. He looks at the road, and when he glances at her again, she’s looking at him.

Like, looking at him. It reminds him of the first time they met, and every time after that. Longing and wanting. Expect now? She’s not afraid of it. Not as much, anyway. Bellamy knows that look, so he smirks at her.

Clarke laughs again, exasperated, knowingly, “You’re such a cocky asshole.“

“Want me to pull over?”

There’s a pause, and out of the corner of his eye he can see that she is trying not to smile.

The place she was sent to was upstate, woody, far away from the metropolitan facility Abby claimed she was going to be. But it’s sort of perfect, because they take a detour and drive down a rocky path into the trees. Bellamy parks the car, and almost immediately, Clarke is straddling him combing his hair back with his fingers.

She leans back and pulls her (his) heavy sweatshirt over her head, tosses it in the driver’s seat. And Bellamy takes a moment to run his hands over her creamy torso, even paler, now that they’re in the middle of winter. Her hands ghost over his jaw, rub at the nape of his neck.

“Was there anyone else?”

Bellamy frowns, because at first he has no idea what she’s saying.

“When I was away?”

Oh. He raises his eyebrows, she looks vulnerable, and like she’s trying not to look vulnerable. He’s about to say, _nah,_ but then he remembers Roma and freezes. The realization must cross his face because her eyes look hurt, and she turns her head away.

So, now he really wants to know ( _what are we)._ And technically, he shouldn’t feel the need to explain himself. Despite the hook-ups and flings, he’s never really had a girlfriend. Clarke is really the closest thing and they’ve never even been on a date. But, he finds himself saying, “Hey,” quietly, “I stopped. Nothing happened. I stopped it. I pushed her away.”

Clarke swallows, almost shy when she turns back, “Why?” and she’s got that strong voice on, like she doesn’t care. Bellamy knows she cares.

He lets his head roll back on the rest with a sigh, raises his eyebrow, “Why do you think?”

And not soon after he whispers, _“It’ll always be you,”_ into the skin of her shoulder as she moves on-top of him. And she says it back, _“It’ll always be you, too.”_

Maybe it’s not, “I love you,” but it’s good enough for him, for this moment right here.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lookie who grew up and decided to not be a self-destructive asshole.
> 
> In the next chapter it will be revealed how Wells convinced Abby. Plus more.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone gets high off ecstasy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They finally have the talk. This chapter didn't feel exactly, right, but I hope you enjoy it. 
> 
> Trigger Warnings (!!) drug use, alcohol use, infidelity, sexual content.

When Clarke asks where they are going, she is surprised to hear that Bellamy has spent the last two weeks at Finn’s house. Her eyebrows creep up to her hairline. Because, wow. Bellamy Blake is friends with Finn Collins. He’s friends with Jasper. With Monty. With _Raven._

“You have friends that aren’t your sister?” Clarke asks, mockingly.

He rolls his eyes, obviously annoyed at her knowing little smile. Clarke can’t lie, she is a little disappointed. She figured she’d be spending a quiet night with her closest friends, but honestly? All she really wants to do is curl into bed with Bellamy, let him whisper heated confessions into her skin. The quickie on the way wasn’t enough. She can have him every second of every day, and it will never be enough, so a few minutes in his car is nothing.

When they enter, Bellamy’s hand in hers, his other hauling her bags, everyone cheers. 

There is the pop of a champagne bottle—the cork hits a vase with surprising accuracy, and it shatters before it even hits the floor.

(Jasper turns to Finn sheepishly, who shrugs apathetically, “Yeah, that was priceless, but whatever.”)

Octavia is the first to embrace her, she is sort of crying, and it sort of makes her cry as well. 

She’s looking at everyone’s face, and thinks her mother is right. She does have a home.

There are days spent trying to catch up on everything she’s missed, learning of a party that lasted about a week when she was gone.

“Where did everyone sleep?” she asks Finn skeptically, who is fingering the keys to an old piano in the parlor, a joint hanging out of his mouth (they are stoned pretty much all of the time, because Monty grows now and is willing to share). Raven is turned around on the bench, bumping shoulders with him with a smile.

The tune he plays is campy and upbeat, the kind you play at old parties, and he smiles wickedly around the spliff, “The floor? Shit, I don’t know.”

She tries to call Wells, who (Bellamy snorts scathingly at this) does not pick up. It makes Clarke frown, because she vaguely remembers him visiting her (it is sort of blank after that) and Bellamy getting ready for a fight. When she learns that Bellamy did punch him, Clarke gaps, “You _didn’t.”_

“What was I supposed to do?”

She crosses her arms, “Maybe talk like a normal human being?”

His face tightens, and she doesn’t even know what she said wrong, “Yeah, because _you’re_ so fucking good at talking.”

She’s the one offended, but he walks away like she did something.

Bellamy disappears, and she spends the rest of the night blazed, drinking expensive wine from Finn’s parent’s collection, her head in Raven’s lap as the girl absently strokes her hair and they all laugh to dirty cartoons.

He sneaks up behind her as she’s getting a drink from the kitchen, hands sliding up and gripping her waist.

“Is this an apology?” Clarke asks, trying to be nonchalant.

“Not yet,” he whispers huskily in her ear, and her eyes flutter close as he turns her roughly around and presses her into the kitchen counter. He lifts her up, and yes, they have sex in Finn’s kitchen, she presses her teeth into his shoulder to muffle her cries and then they walk but to the living room like nothing happened.

Those days are amazing. But, there are times when Clarke just…looks at him. Stares into his eyes, because he’s looking back. And she can’t bear to look away. She’s wants to live there, she want to live and die under the heat of his body and his hands and his mouth. And she realizes, she realizes it suddenly.

Clarke wakes up, and she can get used to the sight of Bellamy’s sleeping face, his arms a safe haven, his chest hard and warm against her bare back, the rough slide of his legs tangled in hers. She’s content. Clarke turns into his embrace, and reaches a hand to slide it into his impossibly soft hair. His eyes are closed when she mouths it, just forms the words on her lips, without sound, _I love you._

That’s it. She’s in love with him. In truth, it’s nothing new. She can say it was that first day, that Sunday brunch, the warmth of his large hand on her, the pull of his dark eyes, and the heat in everything he said. She can say it was casual sling of his arms around her shoulder, grounding her. The way he held her that day in his and Octavia’s old apartment as she fell apart. Him pulling away because he didn’t want to take advantage of her being drunk and heartbroken. The first time they fucked in Finn’s bathroom. When he rejected her, at that basketball game, when was ready to tell him everything—

There’s no way to tell, she’s so sick with it, there’s no way to tell how when it started. It’s in every atom of her.

That’s when he opens his eyes, none-the-wiser, blinking sleepy, body tense in a slight stretch as he reaches and pulls her closer to lay on his chest.

“You watching me sleep? That’s fucking creepy,” but his sleepy voice is rough and deep, and mumbling, and it’s making her feel so good.

She reaches up to kiss him hard, urgently and the only thing he needs to hear is, _“I need you inside of me,”_ before he pulls back, his gaze so dark and hot, color creeps up her neck. He rolls them over, not even hesitating when he enters her fast and hard.

A loud cry escapes her before she even knows what is happening, and he’s bracing a hand above her head, he’s asking her, voice hard but breathless, surging pressure and lust all through her, making her body tight, making her throb, “This what you need? Hm?” He’s fucking her ruthlessly, hard but _slow_.

Clarke nods her head helplessly, the friction and the feeling, Bellamy’s smell and warmth and everything too much, “Yes.”

“Is _this_ what you need?”

_“Yes.”_

\---

When they come down for breakfast (it’s three pm, but they’re almost always eating pancakes or pizza), Finn and Octavia are arguing over eggs in the conversation pit.

“How many fucking parties have you thrown in the last month? The last _week._ ”

Finn gives her a long-suffering look, tapping ash expertly into his empty mug before passing her the joint. “Octavia. Everyone knows I love New Years—“

“No one knows that.”

“I already have everything planned out!” he protests. But, everything Finn says with complete with a smiling, easy-going layer, as if he’s already one the argument. Clarke knows it pisses Octavia off more.

The girl snorts, sort of like her brother, and it’s a little creepy for a second for Clarke, “Yeah, like what.”

Finn pauses, “Um. Lots of drugs,” he says, like, _obviously._

Monty nods sagely and Jasper starts to say, “That sounds good to me,” but he shuts his mouth after Octavia’s withering look.

“Well,” she starts, “I have a _theme.”_

Finn laughs (a little condescendingly), “A theme? The _fuck?”_

“It’s an awesome theme,” she defends, then proudly, she says, _“Glitz and Glam.”_

Finn laughs again, with that boyish charm, head thrown back, as Octavia fumes.

 “Clarke!” Octavia turns to her for help, and from her place on Bellamy’s lap she bites her bottom lip.

“Just…have it together?”

They both start to protest, Finn smiling easily, Octavia wrinkling her nose. After all, progress with Bellamy didn’t mean progress with Octavia. For a while Finn (and Raven) where on the girl’s shit list. She welcomed them, of course, but Octavia does like Raven quite a bit more than she likes Finn.

“Throw the fucking party together and shut the fuck up,” Bellamy deadpans loudly, head leaning back on the cushions as he absently strokes her back. She shivers.

\---

New Years is there sooner than any of them anticipate, and she gets ready for a small dinner party her mother is hosting. At first, she hadn’t thought of going. But, she does want to meet her mother halfway. And the thought of talking to Wells makes the deal better. It is odd. Almost a year ago she was avoiding him in the halls of their high school, and now? He seems to be avoiding her. It make her a little hurt, and she’s not that sure why at first, but now she knows—if he felt like she does now? It sucks.

In typical New Year’s fashion, she is dressed in something sparkly, but conservative. And she forces Bellamy to come with her, unable to face it alone.

They enter, give up their coats, “Promise me you’ll on your best behavior,” she tells, taking a deep breath.

But, then, he looks at her, pauses a second in that way of his, a smile just hidden behind his eyes, and says, “I’m always on my best behavior.”

She frowns, raising her eyebrow, trying to ignore the bass his voice, the way it dropped dangerously low. And he just grins.

He doesn’t move from her side, and she fights a smile, lacing her fingers through his and leading the way. When she finds her, Abby is surrounded by people and smiling, completely in her element. Among them is Jaha, _Wells_ , and Lexa, who’s eyes only widen a fraction when they see her, and then narrow when they see her hand clasped with Bellamy’s.

“Clarke,” Abby starts, trying to hide her surprise and obvious disappointment, and it’s so familiar that she actually rolls her eyes, “You didn’t tell me Bellamy was coming.”

“Yeah, well, you didn’t tell me Lexa would be here, either.”

To this, Abby says, nothing, and Clarke turns to Wells, who excuses himself to the other room quickly. And just as quickly, she follows.

“Wells!” her heels click as she catches up with him in the dining room, “Wells.”

The boy turns to her, guiltily.

She shrugs her shoulders, helplessly, “Wells. You haven’t called—“

“I know.”

She swallows, “What is it?”

He takes a moment to breath, and then surges forward to embrace her tightly, and she relaxes, takes in the smell of her friend, the solid familiarity, with a smile.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, and she realizes. He feels guilty.

“Hey,” she detaches herself, takes in his expression, “I’m fine. Not fine. But, I will be. I’m better than before. I’m not breaking things. I’m okay. I will be okay,” she assumes him, hand on his shoulder.

Wells’s eyes search her face, and Clarke can tell he is trying to say something, he has that look, he’s trying to figure out what to say. He opens his mouth to speak, but then everyone else is coming in, taking their seats at a table. As if he doesn’t want to be near her, he takes a seat next to Bellamy, quickly, leaving her to sit with Lexa.

When the red wine gets poured, she downs hers, quick, and waves her hand for more. Bellamy snorts in laughter, and Abby hums in disapproval. But, she needs to be _drunk_ in order to survive this dinner. There is not enough pot in the world.

“So,” Abby starts, smiling forcibly, “Clarke. Lexa is going to be spending the summer here. With an intern ship at Thelonious’s office.”

Her heart pounds, once, angrily. She turns to the girl, who continues to eat undisturbed.

“Congrats,” Bellamy says mockingly, chewing perfectly cooked steak, “Looks like everyone got what they wanted,” he meets Clarke’s eyes with a suggestive smirk and she ducks her head to hide her smile.

The room turns to him, and he doesn’t even look embarrassed, just sips at his wine.

The tension between them is uncomfortable to watch. But Clarke resents Lexa so much it is a little exciting to see if Bellamy can get a rise out of her. Though she fully intended to meet her mother halfway, the night has turned into something different, and it has entirely become a little bit of a war between Lexa and Bellamy. Clarke wonders if she is the prize.

“And what do you study, Bellamy?” Jaha asks, carefully.

“Ancient Literature.”

Jaha perks up at this, “That’s a major you don’t see every day. Are you planning on being a teacher?”

Bellamy looks uncomfortable for a moment, then shrugs, “Yeah.”

Clarke doesn’t have to look at her mother to know she disapproves. Teachers barely make any money. Politicians, on the other hand. Abby’s always approved of Lexa. She’s polite, she’s pre-law, she fits into their world. Bellamy never has.

“That’s great,” Jaha says, “You know, teachers deserve more credit in this country. It’s an extremely underappreciated career.”

Bellamy gives him a crooked smile, eyes glinting, “Come on, Senator. This isn’t a fundraiser, you don’t have to woo me. Either, I’m still not going to vote for you.”

There is a silence before Jaha starts laughing, and when she looks at Wells, he’s hiding a smile. Abby looks unimpressed and annoyed. 

Bellamy catches her eye, _“Best behavior,”_ he mouths. And she so taken, trying not to grin stupidly and kiss him right there, because he’s managed to charming and an asshole at the same time. How is that even possible?

They have their dessert and coffee in the drawing room, and that’s when Bellamy and Lexa get in an argument about immigration. Clarke hates politics, and so does Bellamy, so she’s pretty sure he’s arguing for the sake of pissing her off.

“I don’t expect you to understand. It’s hard to keep up with the world, when you’re studying the past.”

Bellamy says nothing, smiles dangerously, and she from her place by Abby, Clarke stiffens.

Lexa goes on, sipping nonchalantly at her espresso, “It’s not a very substantial career, in my opinion, but a society needs teachers. Not everyone can be a leader.”

Oh. God.

Bellamy narrows his eyes, smiling dangerously, “And when you can’t fuck your way to the top, what are _you_ going to do?”

Clarke’s eyes close in horror. Because Bellamy isn’t one to tiptoe. He goes for the jugular, loves it.

Abby sets down her cup with a pinched look on her face, “Bellamy. If you’re going to be rude and vulgar, I’m going to have to ask you to leave—“

Bellamy laughs, once, bitterly, and gets up. He walks over to the decanter in the corner of the room, pours some expensive brandy, much to the chagrin of Jaha, “You know what? I get that you didn’t know I was coming. Okay, yeah, you invited Lexa hoping she and Clarke would see each other, and get back together, and all that bullshit. You don’t like me. You don’t like me with your daughter—“

“Bellamy,” Wells warns, shaking his head.

“Shut up, Wells,” he holds up his hand, looking directly at her mother, unblinkingly, and continues, “So, let’s end all this…bullshit. Okay, I’m fucking sick of it. Lexa,” he turns to her mockingly, “Aren’t you sick of it?”

Lexa says nothing, but her face is so hard it might be marble, and Clarke looks to Bellamy, the storm she loves and hates raging behind his eyes, smirk almost cruel, “Clarke?” she jumps, shocked at being addresses, because he’s still not looking at her, even more shocked when he asks, “Who do you love?”

She opens her mouth to speak, heart pounding hard and fast in her chest, anxiety taking over.

And then Lexa finally speak, “You’re embarrassing yourself, Bellamy—“

“I want to know. Don’t you want to know?” he shoots back, and then she gets it.

_Yeah, because you’re so fucking good at talking._

He is being an asshole, sure, but he wants to know. And that’s when she sees it. He’s looking at her, waiting for her answer, hiding his vulnerability behind his maliciousness, “Who is it? Me or her?”

She’s breathing heavily, unable to look away.

“Bellamy, cut it out,” Wells says warily, aware of the panic in her eyes.

“Me or her? Who do you love? Come on, _Princess_ , me or her—“ And it’s the first time in forever he’s called her that. She really doesn’t want to answer. Or maybe she does. Either way, she speaks.

“You,” she answers quietly, and his face changes, relaxes, his expression almost unreadable.

“What was that? Louder, so we can all hear you—“

 _“You,”_ she obeys, the confession like a shaky, life-changing breath, and she feels lightheaded it with, as if she was tied down and now she’s loose, now she’s free, “It’s you. It’s always been you, it’ll always…” she stops, swallow, full of so much emotion, unable to handle it, _“I love you.”_

There is tense silence, Bellamy licks his lips, gaze intense, and she cannot look away to save her life. She will die looking into the eyes of Bellamy Blake. He nods, and says matter-of-factly, “Good. I love you, too.”

Clarke laughs/sobs, fear gripping her, ignoring her stiff mother beside her while Bellamy walk over to her, taking her arm. She only just has time to set her mug down on the table before he pulls her gently from her seat, leads her out of the room, leaving everyone else in shock.

They get in his truck, silently, she feels cold, not just from the weather.

“Clarke.”

She turns to him, eyes wide, and he looks at  her apologetically, but is trying to hide it. Trying to pretend he didn’t just hurt her.

“Please, don’t speak,” she replies, “Just. Please.”

Wisely, he doesn’t say anything after, just grips his steering wheel tightly. But don’t even leave before Wells is banging on the door. She opens it, and he slides in, breathing heavily, “Going to Octavia’s party?” He offers a slight smile, lacing his fingers through hers.

Clarke smiles shakily.

\---

The party is actually a combined brain-child of both Finn and Octavia. Finn gets his copious amounts of drugs. Octavia insist they be offered from a crystal bowl when they first walk in (all three of them decline). Octavia gets her glitz and glam. But, Finn insists they everyone go creative and flamboyant, so people are dressed scantily, with glittering skin, and sequins. She’s pretty sure she saw Finn dressed in drag, hair combed back and spray-painted gold.

The party is at Bellamy’s grandparent’s home, who are in New York City for New Years. She disappears almost instantly in the dancing crowd, leaving Wells and Bellamy to fend for themselves. She passes by Octavia, who is dressed like an angel, complete with lacy wings and a tight, shiny dress. Her skin is covered in sliver, shimmery makeup, rhinestones line her eyes. She’s moving to the music as if controlled by it, eyes closed, and Clarke hopes Bellamy doesn’t see her, because his sister is definitely on ecstasy. 

Wells catches up with her quicker than she thought, “Hey!” he shouts in her ear, “Are you okay?”

She turns away.

But, then, the night seems to be filled with confessions, because out of the blue, he tells her _, “Your mom cheated on my dad.”_

Clarke looks at him so fast she almost has whiplash, eyes wide as they take in her grim face, but she’s swept up but Raven who pulls her into a hug, and then a hard, quick kiss.

She looks at the girl, flabbergasted when they pull away, and realizes that Wells has disappeared.

“You know,” Raven laughs, pulling her in, “At first, I didn’t get what Finn saw in you, what anyone did. But, I get it. You may be fucked up and emotionally retarded—“

Clarke frowns.

“—But you’re really smart. Really beautiful. You’re _awesome._ I _love_ you. _”_

She searches the other girl’s face, and leans in, hands on either side of Raven’s face, too look in her eyes, _“Are you rolling?”_

Raven blinks, “Are you not?”

Clarke laughs, and feels the tension from the evening disappear, “Um. I love you, too,” she says, genuinely. It’s so much easier to say it to Raven than it is to Bellamy, because it’s not the same. Raven wouldn’t break her heart and leave her in a million pieces. Only one person could do that, and she just gave him the trigger. Shoot her. Bang.

\---

She leaves to find Wells in one of the upstairs rooms, laying on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Interestingly enough, it is her room—the room she always passes out in when she’s spending the night at the Blakes’s. She sits beside him, and he begins talking, not even waiting to be prompted. His eyes are heavy-lidded, his voice disappointed.

“I saw her a couple months ago when I came back for Octavia’s birthday. In the city, right before my flight back to Duke. She was having lunch with him, and I didn’t think any of it, until I saw them kiss,” he shakes his head, “Marcus Kane.”

Something strange is gripping her stomach, “The DA?”

“And my dad’s best friend.”

Clarke sighs, because fuck. Abby.

He turns to her, chocolate eyes sad and filled of regret, “I blackmailed her.”

Before Clarke can express her shock and confusion, he continues, “I told her she had to find a way to get you out, or I’d tell my dad.” He sits up, facing her, and all she can do it hug him, grip him tight, because pain is relative and no one is in more pain than the other. No one hurts more. She doesn’t. Wells doesn’t. And Abby, who is very much like her daughter, apparently, with a penchant for ruining things and not knowing what or who she wants, doesn’t.

“You can still tell him,” she says, trying to make him feel better, “You know you can still tell him.”

And Wells just swallows, because he’s probably gotten used to being a part of the family now, but it doesn’t mean they won’t still be together.

\---

She spend the night trying to avoid Bellamy and get drunk, looks out of place in too many clothing. Clarke is actually doing a good job of not being seen, but she’s so miserable she slips up, caught in her sadness for a second.

He corners her not long after that, pulling her into another room, the bathroom, ironically.

 _“Talk to me,”_ he demands, jaw tight.

Clarke stares at him, and she’s really sorry, she is. She squeezes her eyes tight, because almost immediately, the fear, the anguish is so strong it brings tears. She’s falling apart, again, and Bellamy walks toward her, hand out, like he’s trying to sooth a wild animal, “Clarke…”

“Don’t,” she shakes her head, several deep breaths, and calms down a little.

His jaw clenches, “You love me,” he says, like he’s accusing her, or reminding her,

She bites her lip, she can’t get enough air in her lungs, “I can’t.” Because after all of this, she really can’t, it scares her, fucking scares her, she can’t handle that.

“Nothing has changed,” he grits out, almost angry.

“Everything has changed!” she shouts, unable to control herself, _“Everything.”_

He doesn’t move, don’t falter, instead, “You didn’t love me before this? Before all of this? You think saying out loud makes it stronger? Makes it more real? Well, it doesn’t. I knew you loved me and you knew I loved you since before you left.”

She shakes her head, tears streaming down her face.

“You’re fucking lying,” he breathes out, eyes merciless, “You knew.”

Clarke looks at him, desperately, because he’s right. He’s right. Maybe it was that first day. Maybe it was the first time. Maybe, maybe, maybe. Either way, he’s right.

She squeezes her eyes tight, and then opens them again, looks at him, more open and more defenseless then she’s ever been, “I’m scared.”

That, again, is a release, but of a different kind. She’s crying freely, probably looks a mess with her mascara down her cheeks, but fuck, she doesn’t care. Bellamy, like always, ripped the truth from her, and now? She’s spilling, and he’s got his arms around her so tight, Clarke clings to him. The simple truth is that she doesn’t want to end up ruined. Doesn’t like pain. Shuts it all out. Hates to feel. Doesn’t want to end up like her father. Doesn’t want to end up like her mother.

“Me too,” he whispers.

“No. Bellamy. I’m terrified.”

“Me too. But, it’s not going away. I’m fucked up without you, I’m complete shit, and if you think it’s scary now, it’s going to be worse if you say no. I swear to God, I will _fucking_ ….” The threat hangs in the air as he pulls away to wipe the tears from her cheeks, face stern, “I don’t want to be without you.”

She stares at him for a moment, body filled to the top. And the truth is? She doesn’t want to be without him either. She’s sick of that. It’s a bad idea, but it’s the best idea.

“It’s worth it. Being scared is worth it.”

She nods. He’s right. It’s worth it. Every single ounce of pain. Not just from their roller coaster of a relationship. But, before they even knew each other. From when she saw her father hanging by a rope from the ceiling. From when he saw his mother dead in the bathroom floor. Scrapped knees and broken bones and broken hearts. Every single moment. If every atom of him belongs to her and every atom of her belongs to him, _it’s worth it._

So she clings to him, runs her fingers gently through his hair, the slight scrap of his cheeks and jaw, foreheads pressed together, breathing each other in. And her eyes close, flutter close. And through her tears, she smiles.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short epilogue coming in like two days at the most. 
> 
> Just to explain something before that: Old Clarke would have been pissed about Abby. She would have assumed that Jake died for nothing, but since she doesn't blame Abby anymore, that didn't happen. On the other hand, she connects with her mother more now, because she knows the woman isn't perfect. Clarke sees cheating on her father as a betrayal, but cheating on Jaha as them being somewhat similar (because of the whole Finn-Clarke-Bellamy situation). Oddly enough, it makes her more likable in Clarke's eyes.
> 
> I just wanted to make sure Abby's character was understood, and not just written off. I wrote that to make her seem more human, but I feel as if it came of as Abby just being a total bitch, and that's not what I wanted, so. There you go.


	17. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super tiny epilogue, but there needed to be an ending. Finally. This story...was supposed to be way shorter. Thank you for sticking with me.
> 
> No trigger warning, this chapter is pretty tame. If you see anything, let me know.

This ends like this: they spend a couple of more blissful days in his apartment. Bellamy wakes up with the smell of her hair in his nose, her pale arms around his neck. She stirs and the smile she gives is slow and content. He’s impossibly in love.

And impossibly broken when she leaves on a plane to go back to school.

He tries not to feel like complete shit, but it’s hard, so instead he concentrates on his sister, tries to force her to go to college. Octavia is forever a free spirit, forever beating to her own drum, and, of course, she’s sort of lost. Her boyfriend is in MIT, her best friend is in California, and she has no drive.

Not surprisingly, trying to force a future on Octavia and going to college on the east coast is sort of stressful with Clarke across the country. They try to Skype all the time, text and call constantly. But, without the feel of her next to him, the sort of calmness that comes when she’s here and he’s touching her, they fight. He’s jealous, obsessive, maybe. One day, he blows up on her over the phone after seeing a picture of her smiling next to a guy at a party. The jealousy isn’t nothing new, but that morning, she isn’t having it, and when he mentions that she cheated on her last two relationships, she’s silent for a moment, and then hangs up in his face.

They don’t talk for almost a week, and he makes Octavia apply for colleges, even if she doesn’t want to go, even if she doesn’t have the grades, because he’s worked too hard raising her for his little sister and they’ve lost way too much for her to not have all options the world. She gets into UCLA, which sort makes sense, and even if she’s a city girl at heart, he knows she’ll be happy with Clarke and Raven. But, Octavia isn’t sure.

After that week, his sister assures him that he’s being an asshole (surprise, surprise, it’s hard when your girlfriend and sister are best friends), so he books a last minute flight to California for the weekend.

No, really.

He’s amazed at where Clarke and Raven live, right on the beach. He’s lived in the city his whole life, but he thinks it would be nice, can see why his girlfriend (is she still his girlfriend?) loves it. The weather is also fucking perfect. Like, ridiculously different from the snow and freezing cold back home.

When Raven answers the door, the willowy brunette looks him up and down, eyebrow raised sassily. At first, he almost expects a fist to his face, the door to slam closed. What he gets is, _“Finally,”_ and her moving out of the way.  Because apparently Clarke’s been snappy and moody and skipping classes and eating all of her ice cream and it’s his _fucking fault, you dick._

When he reaches Clarke’s room, she’s buried in her bed (even though it’s three in the afternoon) and she doesn’t even look up when the door closes. He wastes no time toeing off his shoes and slipping behind her, curling an arm around her waist and pulling her in.

She stiffens, and then relaxes, pliable and perfect against him. He buries his nose in her hair. And realizes. Long-distance relationships actually suck.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles after a moment.

“I hate you,” she replies, throat horse and he can imagine her crying and now he feels really bad.

“I love you,” he tells her.

She turns around in the circle of his arms, blinks slowly, still tired. And that’s when he realizes the old shirt she’s wearing is his. He’s been wondering where it went and now he knows that she took it.

 _“I’m sorry,”_ he says again, and when he smoothens her hair from her face, she closes her eyes, leaning into it.

Raven leaves for the weekend, spends the days with a guy named Wick, which he isn’t sure Finn knows about, or if it even matters. With her roommate gone, Bellamy spends the weekend having sex with his girlfriend. Eating breakfast in her bed, pressing her against the tile of her shower, whispering, _“God, I love you, I miss you,”_ into every part of her skin. Watching Netflix naked and laughing into her shoulder. It’s perfect until he has to go back.

They cling to each other at the airport, it fucking hurts. He kisses her once, hard, hands cradling her face, thumbs smoothing the soft, translucent skin of her cheeks. And when he’s gone, he realizes, again, that _long-distance relationships suck_. And that he doesn’t want to do it anymore.

When Octavia is scouted in the city by a modeling agency, she makes up her mind about what she wants to do with her life. She leaves school a month early, moves in with Finn in New York City and starts getting contracts. And, as if the strings are cut, he makes up his mind, as well.

It comes with a lot of tears, a lot of guilt, but now he gets it, he really does. Living his own life is probably the hardest thing he’s ever had to do. But when classes end, he puts in transfer forms for UCLA, and moves into Clarke and Raven’s perfect house by the beach, just in time for summer.

One one hand: they have pretty fun wine nights and it's sort of hilarious to him that he's living with a girl he had sex with and the girl he's in love with. On the other hand: Clarke is extremely messy, leaves paint buckets and brushes everywhere, and blasts music for hours at a time when she's painting in her studio. Raven is constantly tracking dirt in the house, stripping off her clothing where ever she sees fit, and when Finn comes into town for a week they pretend not to argue about Wick. Bellamy is constantly calling his sister, complaining about being the only one that knows how to cook, and eating all of Raven's ice cream.

But he's with her. He gets to wake up everyday and see her face, and kiss her and _be with her_. It’s not perfect. And yes, it’s not exactly easy. But he's so fucking stupidly happy he doesn't even care.

This is how it ends.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And everyone lived happily ever after. Thank you for putting up with me and my first story. It's still almost violently unbeta'd, so everyone who made it this far is brave as hell. Thanks for reading, for leaving comments, bookmarking, etc. It really made my day.


End file.
